


Cats, Cafés, and A Million Other Reasons to Fall in Love

by quantumducky, Zykaben



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Cat Cafés, Cats, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26378872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantumducky/pseuds/quantumducky, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zykaben/pseuds/Zykaben
Summary: One day during his lunch break, Jonathan Sims stumbles across Kit-Tea, a cat cafe that recently opened in London. He becomes a regular, determined to pet the cats that reside there as much as possible. He didn't plan on getting a crush on a member of the staff there, but really, how could he not have fallen for Martin?Or: Jon falls in love with Martin through a series of visits to a newly opened cat cafe that Martin happens to work at. Extremely graphic depictions of petting cats.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 80
Kudos: 324
Collections: Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> illustrations for this fic were made by the wonderful [clars!](https://smolghostings.tumblr.com/)

The work of an archival assistant was, Elias had explained, absolutely critical to both the head archivist and the archive itself. According to him, Gertrude has inherited something of a mess and it would take real, hard work to get everything back in order. He’d said that she would need help, that the help provided to her would be invaluable to the Institute. That being offered this job, this _challenge,_ was an honor that he did not grant lightly.

After a month of actually _doing_ the job, Jon could say with confidence that Elias was something of a _liar._

Well, perhaps that wasn’t quite fair. The archive _was_ a mess, of that there was no doubt. Gertrude’s predecessor had either been the most disorganized, carefree individual in all of London or he had been actively trying to cause as much chaos as possible. At this point, Jon couldn’t definitively say which was more likely. 

And yes, setting such a disaster to rights was important work. Jon wasn’t going to argue that point. He could see why it was imperative that the _two hundred years_ worth of materials contained in the archive needed to be properly organized. It was a monstrous task, but one that needed doing.

So maybe Elias hadn’t outright lied, but he had certainly left out a few key details. Say, for instance, just how mind-numbingly tedious and disgustingly monotonous the work itself would truly be. The emphasis that he had put on the prestige and pay raise that came with the transfer now made a disturbing amount of sense.

Jon had been _happy_ in research. Sure, it had proved frustrating at times, but it had been perfect for him. Following up reports, verifying accounts, hunting down minute details, cross-referencing resources; Jon was brilliant at that. He’d thought that he would be doing something similar as an archival assistant.

That was very much _not_ the case.

His new daily routine began with Gertrude handing him a pile of three or four statements for him to scan. Since there wasn’t a scanner in the archives, Jon would have to haul the statements to the main floor and borrow the library’s. Gertrude was _apparently_ working on getting one for them, but Jon wouldn’t be surprised if she was just brushing him off. She was so busy that he couldn’t exactly hold it against her.

Once all of the pages were properly scanned, Jon would send the data to himself and trudge back down to the archives with his stack of statements. He would get onto his computer, open up the scanned files, and fill in a few fields with the requisite information. He would then transcribe _everything._

And that was it. That was what Jon did. Day in and day out, he spent his time dutifully typing up the mad scribblings of drunks and lunatics. Oh, sure, he had to “preserve the documents”—Gertrude’s words, not his. It wasn’t an inaccurate description, but the reality of it wasn’t nearly as interesting as it sounded. It just meant that Jon had to put each statement in its own manila folder after slipping each page into a clear polyester sleeve. He’d label the thing, file it away, and then he was done with it.

The only reason that Jon hadn’t gone completely insane yet was that he had perfected the art of zoning out after the first two weeks. He could let his mind wander as he typed and then go over it to correct any errors once he’d reached the end.

It wasn’t ideal by any means, but it worked.

“Jon?”

He was typing up a statement now—something about dream-eating moths with an untenable number of eyes. For such bizarre content, it was surprisingly well-written.

“Hello? Earth to Jon Sims—”

He only had one more statement to digitise after this one. Maybe he’d actually leave work on time for once. Maybe take some time to watch a documentary or—

Jon was nudged back to reality by a small poke to his shoulder. He tried to blink away the tight, tired feeling that he could feel building up in his eyes. When that failed, he looked up to see Tim standing over him, his face a strange mix of sunny and serious. 

“What is it?” Jon asked.

Tim gave him a shrug. “Oh, you know, just wondering if you’re planning to eat lunch at some point. It’s half past two.”

He… hadn’t been. Not that it was any of Tim’s business, as far as Jon was concerned. He shot his coworker an annoyed look. “When I actually want it, yes.”

“Right, right,” Tim said with a smile. Something about it brought to mind the notion of a trap. “But, see, you told me the exact same thing yesterday, and I sat next to you the entire rest of the day and never saw you eat anything, so…”

Jon didn’t even have time to try defending himself before Sasha appeared behind Tim. For a moment, he dared to hope that she would tell Tim off, but one look at her face told him that he had already lost.

“What’s going on? Are we trying to convince Jon he has the same basic human needs as the rest of us again?”

“What’s _going on_ is I that I am _trying_ to do my work, and Tim insists on—”

Tim cut him off with a bark of laughter. “Reminding you to eat lunch, how dare I?”

Jon exhaled heavily through his nose. When Tim and Sasha got like this, it was better to just go along with them. It wasn’t as if there was anything left of his focus at this point anyway. “Fine,” he relented. “I’ll—go and get a sandwich from the canteen, or something.”

“Or,” Sasha started, and he didn’t bother hiding his sigh this time. “You _could_ actually leave the building for once. You know, outside? Fresh air? Sandwiches that are actually making an effort to taste good?”

“That would take longer.” He would not admit that it also sounded a lot nicer than his original plan. Fortunately, he didn’t need to, because they weren’t going to leave him alone until he agreed to it either way, so he could act as reluctant as he pleased with the exact same result.

Tim looked at the ceiling, despairing. “You are the only person I’ve ever known to be _annoyed_ by an excuse to take a longer break from work. Go on, a little bit of a walk won’t kill you.”

“You’ll be more productive when you come back if you take a real break,” Sasha added.

Jon sighed again. “Fine, fine. If it’s the only way to have my lunch in _peace.”_ He could hear the two of them high-fiving as he collected his jacket and headed for the stairs, and he smiled a bit at their enthusiasm in spite of himself.

There was a small place nearby he could go for lunch. Not necessarily the closest option—it was a few streets away—but he liked the food, and Tim had been right, the walk would be good for him. It passed quickly, anyway, once he started to sink into his thoughts, and he was more than halfway to his destination when he saw it.

There was a cat in one of the windows he passed—or, rather, didn’t pass, because he stopped dead as soon as he registered the cat. It was a longhair of some sort, brown and black, perched as if it knew people were walking by and looking at it and had decided to pose for their benefit, and it had the softest-looking fur Jon had ever seen. His hands ached to pet it.

He hesitated, but couldn’t quite resist stepping up to the window and looking in. There were more cats inside, and when he managed to tear his eyes away from how pretty and soft they all were, he realized there were also tables and chairs and such. He stepped back and looked at the sign above the door, which told him the place was called Kit-Tea.

A cat cafe… Interesting.

So interesting, in fact, that Jon was inside and standing at the counter before he was consciously aware of moving, and now the man behind said counter was clearly waiting for him to pull himself together and order something. This was not exactly what he had intended to do, but if he turned around and left _now,_ he would never be able to come back out of embarrassment… and if he could never come back, then he would never be able to pet those cats. He stumbled through ordering the first sandwich he saw on the menu and a cup of tea, then sat down at the table he was directed to.

Now that the pressure of carrying out the expected interaction was off of him, he was able to take a better look around. He’d avoided the lunch rush, and at this point, there were more cats around than human customers. They even seemed to have a room for themselves: no tables, just cats and their toys and such. Jon silently willed them to come closer to his table, but none seemed likely to wander into petting range soon, and _he_ couldn’t very well go over to _them._ He’d been told to sit _here_ until his food was delivered, and besides, it wouldn’t be dignified to go around chasing after cats. He would just have to wait and hope one would decide to come to him. And possibly consider luring them with food, if the sandwich he’d ordered at random turned out to have any cat-friendly ingredients on it. It was very possible the staff frowned on that sort of thing, but really, if he wasn’t supposed to feed bits of his sandwich to the cats, there should have been a sign about it when he came in.

… He would ask one of the staff when they came with his food. Just to be safe. Maybe they even had special treats to feed the cats. There would likely be some kind of fee for it, but it would be a small price to pay. What was spending a few more pounds in the face of being able to pet one of the cats? Maybe the calico that was laying under the heat lamp or the silver tabby that was leisurely sauntering across the floor. Or maybe—

“Sir, here’s your—”

Jon practically jumped out of his skin, banging his knee against the table in the process. He took in a sharp hiss of air through his teeth at the dull, throbbing pain that flared up from the impact.

This in itself would have been bad enough, but the universe seemed to have it out for him today because not even a moment later, Jon felt the near-scalding burn of hot liquid seeping through the thigh of his trousers. He let out a small cry, more surprise than actual pain, and his hands reflexively clutched at the now-wet fabric. It took another second for Jon to actually register the high, nervous voice that was frantically babbling.

“— _so_ sorry, oh my god, I didn’t—I know that doesn’t—I am just so sorry, I got startled when you jumped and then—”

Jon looked up at the owner of the voice, a large, broad man with a smattering of freckles across his rounded face. His expression was contorted with concern as apologies continued to spill from his lips. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jon vaguely noticed that the man’s hair looked just as soft and fluffy as the cat in the window had

The man jolted when their eyes met. “Are you alright?”

Jon’s gaze drifted down to his tea-soaked thigh. He scowled. “Just _fine._ ”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could vaguely see the man flinch. “R-right. I’ll just. Um. Go and get some napkins.” And then he was scrambling away, leaving Jon alone.

Jon resisted the urge to let his head fall and crash into the table.

Instead, he grabbed one of the few napkins that were on the table. They were small and cheap things that hardly absorbed any tea before they were soaked through. Jon was thankful that he’d worn his black trousers today; he couldn’t imagine going back into work with a giant, noticeable stain.

He’d just wanted to pet a cat. Was that really too much to ask?

 _Apparently so,_ Jon thought bitterly.

Christ, he couldn’t believe that he’d ever considered this a good idea, even for a moment. This whole thing was just money and time down the drain. He should have known better than to come inside, especially during the middle of his work day.

Jon closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.

“Um, sir?”

Jon opened his eyes and was greeted with the sight of his server, the man’s face twisted with anxiety. His hands were full of napkins. Jon idly registered the badge pinned to the server’s shirt that proudly displayed the name Martin.

“I brought napkins,” the server—Martin, apparently—said. His tone was so awkward that it was almost palpable.

Jon didn’t have the energy to do much else other than hold his hands out for the napkins. Martin quickly handed them over, mumbling apologies all the while. Jon didn’t pay him any mind as he scurried away.

Jon dutifully used the napkins to dab at his trousers. He’d just managed to get them from “wet” to “damp” when his mobile started ringing. Jon briefly considered letting the damned thing go to voicemail the moment he saw that _Tim_ was calling him, but decided that it was best to pick up now before Tim started blowing up his voicemail and spamming texts until Jon answered.

“Hello.”

“Jon! You’re alive!”

Jon couldn’t help but roll his eyes, wasted as the gesture was over the phone. “Yes, Tim. I would have thought that was obvious.”

“You can never be too sure! Me and Sasha were getting kinda worried with how long you’ve been out. We thought you’d just grab something from nearby and come back to eat it in the office, but good on you for taking a proper break.”

Jon twisted his wrist and looked down at his watch. He bit back a curse at seeing the time. “Right. I’ll be back soon. Thank you for… checking up on me.”

“Of course! Us archival assistants have to look out for one another. See you soon.”

Jon mumbled a quick farewell to Tim before hanging up. He stared dejectedly at his phone for a minute and then put it away with a groan. He’d somehow managed to waste his entire lunch break and all he had to show for the effort were tea-stained trousers and a lighter wallet. He hadn’t even managed to pet a single cat the entire time.

The same server as before came by not too long later, dropping off Jon’s sandwich in silence and leaving promptly. Small mercies, that.

Jon scarfed down the sandwich, keeping an eye out for any cat that may have approached him. Maybe he could get just _one_ pet in before he had to leave.

But then, luck was never something that Jon had on his side. No cats came anywhere near him.

Jon finished the sandwich in record time and cast one last look for any cat within arm’s reach. When he once again came up empty, he hunched in on himself and marched out of the cafe.

 _What a waste of time and money,_ Jon thought as he made his way back to the Institute, his pace brisk and eyes fixed on his feet. _Hardly worth a second visit._


	2. Chapter 2

Despite everything, Jon found himself returning to the cat cafe. After all, a bad experience with one of the employees was no reason to write the whole place off, and… well.  _ Cats. _ He was determined to pet them, no matter how many times he needed to come back before it finally happened. He had a plan this time: if he wasn’t so completely out of it, he could probably get himself a table closer to the cat room, and then all he needed to do was be as unobtrusive as possible until no one was paying him any attention. Then, it would be safe to start trying to attract cats without anyone seeing him embarrass himself.

He kept this plan in mind as he pushed open the door and made his way to the register. He couldn’t let himself get distracted looking at the cats again and forget what he was trying to do.

The employee who had brought him—well,  _ attempted _ to bring him his order last time was nowhere to be seen. As far as Jon was concerned, that was a good sign; not only did he not want to have  _ that _ experience again, he also wasn’t particularly interested in the experience of attempting to interact with him as if nothing had happened. Instead, he was served by a lanky blond, whose name badge indicated both a name (Michael) and interchangeable pronouns (currently he/him). He was also, unusually, the one who took Jon’s order at the counter. Maybe the cafe was short-staffed today.

“Hello, dear customer!” Ah. He was… animated. And his customer service face was sort of disturbing—Jon could relate, but he still wished he’d stop smiling like that. “What can we do for you today?”

“I, ah—right. Black tea and a turkey sandwich, please.”

“Coming right up,” Michael chirped, and rattled off the cost.

Jon nodded and got out his wallet. “Thank you, Michael,” he said distractedly. He only noticed the displeased look he was getting when he went to hand over the money. “…What?”

“Don’t call me Michael,” said Michael. “We’ve barely met, you don’t know who I am.”

Jon blinked. “I’m… sorry? It  _ says _ Michael right there, on your badge.” He’d always thought it was more polite to call a person by their name, if you knew what it was. This reaction was not one he knew how to respond to.

“Well, maybe it’s a  _ lie. _ Did you ever think of that? I could have put anything on there if I wanted. You’d be  _ very _ easy to trick, you should be careful.” He walked off in the direction of the kitchen, still looking offended, and Jon was left to his own devices as far as deciding where to sit.

The table he chose was strategically placed to be as far as possible from any other diners—although it seemed the room was laid out so that no one would ever wind up all that close to each other, regardless—while also affording him a good view of the cats. Michael returned soon enough, bringing Jon’s lunch and seeming to have calmed down. The pronouns on Michael’s badge had also changed, now reading ‘ce/cir.’ Jon would have been happy to simply nod in acknowledgement and avoid saying anything else to cir at all, lest he somehow offend again. Unfortunately, he couldn’t help noticing something.

“This isn’t what I ordered,” he had to point out, gesturing to the drink Michael had given him.

Ce smirked, as if amused by some secret joke. “Isn’t it?”

“No.” Jon did not have the patience for whatever this was. “I asked for black tea.” And the thing in front of him was clearly some sort of tea latte, which he  _ never _ ordered. He knew he liked plain black tea, and he  _ didn’t _ know whether he would like anything else, so it didn’t seem worth the risk to pay for something he might not enjoy.

Michael sighed and rolled cir eyes. “If I must explain  _ everything _ to you… Martin told me to give you that. For free. It’s his apology for spilling tea on you the other day. I don’t think he should  _ be _ apologizing for an accident, personally, especially such an amusing one, but it’s none of my business.”

Jon flushed at the reminder of that embarrassing incident. “Well, regardless. I didn’t  _ order _ a, a…”

“Salted caramel rose tea latte,” ce supplied.

“Right, yes. That. The… the sentiment is… appreciated, I suppose, but if I had  _ wanted _ one of those, I would have ordered it in the first place.”

Michael scowled at him. “If you’re going to be like  _ that _ about it, maybe I won’t give it to you after all. You don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t  _ want _ you to give it to me,” Jon agreed, beginning to despair. Couldn’t he just have  _ one _ normal interaction in this place? “Give it back to, ah, to Martin, if you like, and let me have the tea I  _ ordered. _ Please,” he tacked on, a terse afterthought.

For a few increasingly awkward seconds, Michael just  _ looked _ at him. “Actually,” ce decided, “I shan’t. I haven’t charged you for it, so you can either drink what I’ve given you or not. I don’t care.” Having said that, ce left again with no apparent intention of changing cir mind, and Jon wasn’t feeling  _ quite _ detached enough from the usual social conventions to shout after cir and make a scene in front of other customers.

He considered refusing to touch the caramel-whatever thing, purely on principle. Eventually, though, he had to admit it was a little overly petty to reject a well-meaning gesture from one person just because someone  _ else _ had been unreasonable about it. Besides, he had never enjoyed eating without a drink to go with it. So he eventually gave in, picked up the cup and tried a sip.

It… wasn’t bad. Not the sort of thing he would have chosen himself, of course, but he couldn’t say he disliked it. For whatever other faults this Martin person may have had, his taste in tea lattes was, apparently, not the worst. Despite the baffling interactions Michael had put him through earlier, Jon found himself somewhat mollified. He’d drunk the entire thing by the time he left the cafe.


	3. Chapter 3

Jon wasn’t giving up. There were  _ cats in that cafe _ and he was  _ going to pet them, _ no matter how many awkward situations he had to suffer through first. The third time was the charm, right? So, once again, he went back determined.

And it did seem to be going well. Nothing strange happened as he ordered and found a table. Today, he was dealing with the man who’d been at the counter the first time he came in, who was called Mike and seemed… normal enough. He was quiet, unremarkable other than the scar peeking out from the collar of his shirt which Jon scolded himself against being too curious about, and he more or less left him alone once he was sitting down. The ideal arrangement, as far as he was concerned. Even better, Jon didn’t have to look around in search of the cats, because one of them came to  _ him. _

It was a beautiful cat, with exceptionally fluffy brown fur, and it wandered over and delicately inspected his legs and shoes. Eventually, it deemed him acceptable by whatever cat-metric it was using and looked up at him.

“Well, hello there,” Jon said softly. “Do I smell interesting? Mostly like old paper, I’d expect. Not very interesting to a cat unless you can tear it up.” He offered his hand, and the cat sniffed that as well before gently bumping its head against his fingers. He smiled and began petting its head, which was exactly as soft as it looked. “Not that I’d recommend  _ that, _ mind you. I doubt even a cat would escape the wrath Gertrude brings on anyone who damages her files.”

“Mrow,” said the cat.

“Yes, I agree. Best not to risk it. You just stay here, where you get all the food and attention you want, hm?” The cat tilted its head up, and Jon obligingly scratched its chin. “Must be nice being a cat. You all certainly get more sleep than I do, for one.”

It really was a  _ very _ soft cat. The temptation to sit down on the floor and bury his face in its fur was strong, but Jon managed to hold himself back and just… you know, pet it. The cat seemed to agree that this was the best course of action. It rubbed its face against his hand repeatedly and wound its way around his legs, purring, then finally sat on his foot. He stroked the soft patches behind its ears a few times before petting all the way from its head to the base of its tail. This, apparently, offended the cat. It shook itself with a disgruntled “mrrp” and walked away, only to sit down a meter away with its back to him and start grooming.

“Well, I’m sorry, how was I supposed to know you wouldn’t like that?”

The cat did not acknowledge him. Jon ducked down and reached out toward it invitingly. “Look, I won’t do it again. Come back, will you?”

That didn’t work either. He had started making little clicking noises with his tongue, which the cat was still ignoring, when someone cleared their throat.

Jon sat up quickly, hit his head on the underside of the table and bit back a curse. Mike was standing there with his drink, looking unimpressed.

“Sorry, I was, ah, looking for something I dropped.”

Mike nodded slowly and set his order on the table. “Right.”

He realized the hole in his story and hastily added, “But it turns out I didn’t drop anything, I just—thought I did.”

“Okay? I really don’t care.”

Jon could tell he didn’t believe him, whatever he said, and he was probably going to go about the rest of his day thinking of him as the weird customer who hit his head on the table and then lied about why he was down there in the first place. And he was still standing there, and Jon couldn’t figure out what he was waiting for. It was so deeply embarrassing, all he could think was that he had to say  _ something, _ literally anything, to change the subject.

He blurted the first thing that came into his head. “Where did you get that scar?” Before the words were all the way out of his mouth he realized he was making it worse and not better, but it was a little too late to do anything about it.

Mike’s face didn’t change much, but his eyes turned stormy. He muttered something to himself that seemed rather unsettlingly like a reminder not to kill the rude customers, while Jon tried and failed to come up with the words to apologize. Before he could remember how to say anything at  _ all, _ Mike made direct, expressionless eye contact and pulled the tablecloth off the table.

Nothing was disturbed in the slightest. It was like a magic trick, one he could only assume was meant as a fake-out in the direction of everything falling on the floor. Jon was confused and intimidated in equal measure.

“Sorry?” he finally managed as Mike walked away, folding the tablecloth as he went. His response was difficult to hear at this point, but seemed to be along the lines of “good, you should be.”

Jon didn’t see him again the rest of the time he was there, which was probably for the best. He’d come to the conclusion that either everyone in this cafe inhabited a reality slightly to the left of his own, or they were involved in some sort of incomprehensible performance art. And he couldn’t seem to get along with any of them, for reasons which were…  _ varying _ degrees of his own fault. He didn’t know what it said about him that all of this nonsense was outweighed by the fact that he had finally been able to pet a cat today. Gateway into a weird parallel universe or no, he still fully intended to come back… at least as long as he could avoid angering the employees so much they stopped letting him in.


	4. Chapter 4

Mike was the one at the till when Jon returned again, and he made no effort to hide his distaste while taking his order. Unsure of how to address the tension or apologize, Jon just… didn’t say anything about it. It wasn’t a  _ good _ solution, but it was all he could think of at the moment. He survived the brief interaction and seated himself. None of the cats seemed inclined to approach him today, so he watched them from afar in an effort to distract himself from how awkward this entire visit was probably going to be.

It wasn’t also Mike’s job to bring him his tea, thank goodness, nor was it Michael. It said something about how badly his previous attempts at dining here had gone that he was so relieved to see Martin serving him again. Maybe he hadn’t done a very good job of it last time, but at least he didn’t actively  _ hate _ Jon. And really, if he made a  _ habit _ of spilling tea on people he surely would have been fired by now, so it had probably just been bad luck before. He had already tried to make up for it, anyway, although it had been somewhat overshadowed in Jon’s mind by how confusing Michael’s behaviour had been on either side of relaying the message.

That said, even if Martin were the most incompetent cafe employee in the world, Jon would have tried to be nice to him today. If he managed to make  _ everyone _ who worked here hate him, they might not let him come back.

He pulled himself out of his thoughts when Martin actually reached him. He smiled at Jon, which was a good sign, even if he looked just a tad awkward. “Hello again! I’m sorry about my coworkers, they… can be sort of touchy?”

“That’s quite alright,” Jon said stiffly. “Thank you for the tea.” He attempted to smile back, though he was sure it didn’t look at all natural.

“Oh, uh, well,” Martin laughed, “it’s my job, so…”

“No, no—before, I mean. The other day.”

“Oh! Right, that. I just thought it might make up for, you know… What did you think of it?”

“It was…” Jon couldn’t very well  _ say _ that he’d initially been annoyed about it, but eventually decided it wasn’t bad after all. “It was good,” he managed after too long a pause. He could feel things getting more terribly awkward by the second, but he hadn’t been able to come up with any more specific descriptors on the spot.

“Well, that’s… good.”

“I, I appreciated it.” That was closer to what he was trying to get across—but wait, did it sound like he hadn’t actually liked it? “And also enjoyed it.” It was  _ hard _ not to say anything that could possibly come across as rude. This was exactly why Jon didn’t normally bother trying. “And you didn’t need to do it, so thank you,” he said a bit desperately. If that wasn’t sufficient to get them off the subject, he might actually die.

Martin was still smiling at him, and Jon got the feeling he was suppressing the desire to laugh at him. But he was being  _ polite _ today, and  _ not _ getting himself thrown out of Kit-Tea, so he didn’t call him on it. “You’re welcome,” he said, and didn’t  _ actually _ laugh, so Jon supposed that was acceptable.

He nodded, and picked up the tea he’d ordered this time to have a sip. He was running out of pleasantries, but Martin was still standing there, and he was beginning to fear he’d accidentally turned this basic interaction into a real conversation which he would now be expected to continue. “This is good, too,” he offered.

“I’m glad.” Martin, at least, didn’t seem to think he was being too weird. On the other hand, he also still didn’t seem to be leaving. When he saw Jon’s attention drifting, he followed his gaze to one of the cats, a sleek calico stretched out in the sun. “Cute, aren’t they?”

Jon felt his face heat up a little. “Yes.” It didn’t make any  _ sense _ that he should still be embarrassed about his interest in the cats, despite how little he was hiding it by frequenting the cat cafe when he could have been anywhere else, but here he was.

“That one’s Daisy. Well, really her name is Alice, that’s what they called her at the shelter, but she’s got that patch there—see?—that sort of looks like a flower.”

Jon squinted. “Sort of,” he agreed uncertainly.

“Exactly! So we started calling her Daisy as a nickname, and now she mostly answers to that. She likes it better.”

“Ah, well, in  _ that _ case.” The coloring of her fur may or may not have borne any resemblance to a daisy, but respecting the cat’s preferences was certainly more important than accuracy.

“She looks sweet now, but you do  _ not _ want to see what she’ll do to a bird. And she goes after people’s ankles sometimes, so watch out.”

He nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.” Looking at the cat, a genuine, much less forced smile crept over his face. “Thank you for telling me about her, Martin.”

“I’m always happy to talk about the cats!” He let out a slightly self-deprecating little chuckle. “I tend to go on about them and it’ll probably happen again, so whenever you want me to stop rambling, just say. I’d better get back to the kitchen before Michael gets bored and tries balancing knives on her fingertips again. Enjoy your tea, ah…”

The silence stretched almost to the point of breaking before Jon realized he was trying to ask his name. “Oh! Jon,” he supplied hastily.

“Nice meeting you, Jon. Let me know if you need anything else.” Martin gave him one last sunny smile and went back to work.

A few more customers came in after that, and Jon was half relieved that Martin was too busy to wander back over to chat with him again. The amount of awkward pauses in his day was becoming dangerously high. Still, it was good to know there was  _ someone _ here he could have a decent conversation with… and even better to find a potential ally in his quest to pet all the cats. If Martin was here again next time he came in, maybe Jon could get some insider knowledge on how to get each of them to like him.

And as a bonus, although Jon wasn’t the best judge of such things, it seemed as though  _ Martin _ liked him well enough. As he was leaving the cafe, Martin looked up from the table he was clearing dishes from and waved a friendly goodbye. It was unexpected—Jon tended to forget people remembered his existence when he wasn’t actively talking to them—but he responded with a hesitant smile and waved back.


	5. Chapter 5

Michael saw Jon enter the store, made eye contact, and looked away with an expression that screamed  _ yikes _ before failing to act natural while straight-up walking away. Jon still wasn’t quite sure what problem Michael even  _ had _ with him—especially to the point of refusing to even take his order—but by the time he reached the counter, Martin was there instead. Not that Jon minded at all, honestly; Martin was definitely more pleasant to have a conversation with.

Martin smiled apologetically and prepared to ring him up. “You want your usual?”

Jon… hadn’t been aware he  _ had _ a ‘usual.’ Had he really been here enough times that Martin knew what he would want before he said it? “I, I suppose so,” he agreed after a moment of startled blinking. But wait, he’d come in with a mission this time. “And, uh, do you have any cat treats a-available for purchase, here? For the cats,” he added, for no reason he could discern. “Obviously.”

“Oh, sure!” Martin ducked under the counter and came back with a jar in each hand to show him. “We’ve got a few different kinds. You might want to wait until after you’ve eaten to start attracting cats, though. Some of the sneaky little buggers will have a go at your food if they think they can get away with it.”

Jon would have resented the implication that he looked like the sort of person who would let a cat make off with his lunch if not for the fact that he absolutely  _ was _ that sort of person. He considered resenting it anyway, just on principle. It was still important to stay in Martin’s good graces, though, so he only nodded. “I’ll come back for the treats later, then.”

“Good plan. I’m sure you know how this works by now, so go ahead and sit down while I get your order started.”

The entire time he waited, of course, he was distracted by thoughts of giving treats to cats in the near future. Once Martin brought his order, he struggled not to snap at him impatiently to stop trying to make friendly conversation and get on with it. He did  _ try _ not to rush through his food too obviously, but when he saw Martin at one point in the corner of his vision, he definitely looked amused. When Jon ran out of patience and decided to just claim he wasn’t as hungry as he’d expected, though, the man had mysteriously made himself scarce. Jon sighed and finished eating, and then there Martin was, clearing away the dishes and setting the jars of treats on the table in their place for him to have a look at.

“There’s different flavors, you see, and the cats all have their favorites.” He pointed around the room at every cat they could see and listed off each of their preferences, and Jon listened with rapt attention. He tried not to make too many faces when the cats were named ridiculous things like Wheat Bread. He wasn’t sure he was succeeding. “I did not name them,” Martin reminded him more than once. Jon privately suspected that this was merely an excuse and, even if he had, they would have met with the same undignified fates.

He had already made up his mind to pay whatever was necessary for the reward of petting cats, so when Martin suggested starting with a few of the salmon-flavored treats and approaching the cat that had rejected him before, he went along with it without asking any further questions. He approached slowly with the treats cupped in the palm of his hand, Martin trailing behind him to supervise. Jon tried not to look overly nervous. He sat down on the floor next to the cat—Pine Cone, Martin said its name was, which Jon supposed would make anyone a bit touchy—and held out his hand.

The cat stood up and stretched, seeming to ignore him. Wouldn’t want Jon thinking it was actually  _ interested, _ just because he had its favorite treats. After a few seconds to make sure the status quo was understood, though, it walked over and sniffed him, then delicately ate the treats out of his hand. He hardly dared to breathe. Cautiously, watching for any sign of displeasure, he brought his hand up to the top of the cat’s head and stroked the fur between its eyes with his thumb. Pine Cone seemed amenable to this, squinting its eyes in response. It gave his hand a few more licks after the treats were gone, then finally looked at the rest of him. Jon continued his calm, gentle petting, and the cat started to lean into it, bumping against his hand and meowing when he paused his ministrations for a little too long. Martin, behind him, said something encouraging, but Jon had to admit he mostly tuned it out, on account of how Martin was not a cat.

After a minute of this, the cat was purring quietly, walking in circles around him so that he needed to twist around to reach it. This was inconvenient, but mostly offset by the fact that it was also rubbing up against him. Some people might not have considered it a bonus to now have cat fur all over their shirt, but those people, as far as Jon was concerned, were tragically misguided. Pine Cone had completed a few laps around his body when it put its front paws on his legs and stretched up to nudge its head against his face. Jon froze and let out a startled little noise, then winced when he remembered Martin was still right next to him and had probably heard that. The cat would have been hard pressed to care any less about his mild embarrassment. It meowed again, decisively, and curled up on his lap.

Jon looked up at Martin with stars in his eyes and a slightly helpless expression. Martin laughed and sat down beside him. “Sorry, I guess you did a little  _ too _ well at getting him to like you. You’re going to be trapped for the foreseeable future.”

“There are worse fates,” Jon mused. He was still petting Pine Cone, because whenever he tried to stop, he was met with an impatient little yowl and tail flick. He couldn’t say he minded. It was hard to get tired of carding his fingers through such soft fur. Lost in thought and caught up in the euphoria of having a loudly purring cat in his lap, he didn’t realize he was ignoring Martin until it suddenly occurred to him that he’d been sitting for several minutes in total silence. He looked up again sheepishly. It was gone quickly, so fast he wondered if he had imagined it, but for half a second, it seemed almost like Martin had been looking right at  _ him _ the same way Jon had been looking at the cat.

He was probably mistaken. Maybe Martin had been watching Pine Cone, too, before he turned his attention back to Jon. That was the face people made, after all, when they were looking at something unbelievably cute. It just wouldn’t make any  _ sense _ for anyone to turn that expression on  _ him. _

“Ah, right, what do I owe you for the treats?” Jon had nearly forgotten. He reached for his wallet awkwardly, trying not to disturb the cat, but Martin stopped him.

“Oh, don’t bother with that, they’re on the house this time.”

“Getting me hooked so I’ll come back for more?”

Martin stared at him for a second before realizing that had been a joke. He laughed then, which was a relief; it was always awkward when Jon’s humor didn’t land at all. Sometimes people walked away from a conversation still thinking he’d been completely serious. “Yeah, you caught me. This may look like a regular cafe, but the  _ real _ business model is based around our extremely lucrative cat treat sales.”

Jon smirked, looking down at the cat. “The first taste is free, but after that they’re fifty pounds each. You won’t stay in business long like that, Martin, you’ll bleed all your customers dry. Eventually they’re going to realize how much cheaper it would be to make a sandwich and visit a shelter.”

“Ah, but you haven’t heard the part where we’re also going to adopt every single cat in London and train them to ignore anyone who doesn’t have our treats. They’ll have no choice but to keep coming!”

Jon nodded seriously. “That  _ is _ nefarious. My only hope is to get some sort of loyalty discount for not telling anyone of your evil plans.”

“Hmm, well, keep coming in and we’ll see.” He reached over and scritched Pine Cone’s ears.

“Don’t let your coworkers know you’ve been encouraging me. Michael looked ready to strangle me when I came in today.”

Martin sighed. “Oh, don’t mind them. It’s not personal, they just… don’t get along with  _ most _ people. The two of them—Mike and Michael, I mean—hated each other when they first met, too.  _ I, _ for one, think you’re perfectly nice.” There was a pause. Jon smiled fondly at Pine Cone attempting to groom the back of his hand. Meanwhile, Martin’s voice went slightly higher. “A-a perfectly nice customer, that is, you’re not, not rude or anything—I have to, uh… go. Back to the kitchen now.” He stood quickly and left.

“Thank you,” Jon absently remembered to say, just before he was gone. Frankly, it had taken him that long to process that a compliment had been involved. Having a cat in his lap really was  _ very _ distracting. Hopefully, Martin hadn’t taken offense at his preoccupation.

It was a shame Martin had needed to leave. He was the one of them who could more accurately be called  _ nice, _ really. It was good to know at least  _ someone _ here was friendly. It had been a while since Jon had a real conversation with anyone he didn’t work with. He wasn’t  _ completely _ sure if this counted, since  _ Martin _ was at work right now and being friendly to customers was part of his job, but it had still been nice.

Jon’s spot on the floor was far enough out of the way that he wasn’t all that concerned about inconveniencing people if he stayed there longer. Pine Cone started kneading his leg at some point, which, while sort of painful, he also felt was a sign he shouldn’t move. Ten minutes passed like that before the cat abruptly decided his time was up. It climbed off of him, yawned expansively, and headed for the room where all the toys were kept.

It wasn’t until he stood up that Jon realized how stiff he was. He glanced around to make sure no one was currently looking at him before stretching, and he was pretty sure twelve different joints cracked simultaneously. He didn’t  _ regret _ sitting on the floor for so long, given the circumstances, but his body was certainly doing its best to change that. He checked the time and shook his head at himself with a sigh. He’d been here longer than he probably should have. As he was leaving, Martin poked his head out of the kitchen one more time, maybe just to show he hadn’t forgotten him.

“Bye! Have a nice day, come again!”

“Oh, ah—you too. Have a nice day.” Jon smiled at him, and ignored Michael’s eye-rolling as he walked out. He  _ would _ be coming back again, thank you very much.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been a while, now, since Jon started going to Kit-Tea, and he’d become one of the regulars. That didn’t mean he could go there  _ every _ day, though. For one thing, his money was not infinite, and all that tea added up in a way his bank account did not appreciate. For another, he did sometimes have other things to be doing. Today, for example, he found himself combing through bookshops in search of the one, specific, apparently very-hard-to-find book which was required to follow up on a certain statement. Jon  _ liked _ bookshops, and he especially liked the eccentric little places where you never knew what you were going to find when you turned a corner, but when he went into them actually  _ looking _ for something, he found his fingers beginning to itch for a lighter. He did understand why Ms. Robinson sent him on this errand instead of going herself, though: aside from considering her own time more valuable than that of her assistants, she also had a tendency to snap at people whose organization techniques she disagreed with.

The time was nearing evening, and Jon was nearing the breaking point of his sanity, when he entered one of the slightly less chaotic places on his list and spotted Martin. His first thought, unfortunately, was one of mild surprise that the man existed outside his place of employment, somewhat like a young child shocked to see their school teacher in an environment other than the classroom. The level of exasperation he felt for himself immediately after pushed him to turn in a different direction. Martin hadn’t noticed him yet, and Jon was no longer sure he could trust himself not to make any conversation they might have terribly awkward. He went down a random aisle and looked at the books on either side. They were grouped vaguely by subject, if not in any discernible order beyond that, which was better than the last shop he’d tried.

He threw himself into his search with the intensity of a man desperate to find the damn book he came for and be done with it. He had achieved a focus narrow enough to all but block out all other thoughts and awareness when someone behind him cleared their throat.

Jon whirled around with fury in his eyes, prepared to verbally disembowel whoever dared to break his concentration and delay the end of his search by the time it took to deal with them. He scrambled to push down the rage when he saw that it was Martin standing there, who looked torn between startled fear and impressed amusement. Once Jon had himself under control, he settled firmly into the latter.

“I just thought I’d say hello,” he said, eyebrows raised. “Fancy meeting you here and all that. Not a good time for small talk, I take it?”

“Hello, Martin. Sorry about that. I am…  _ frustrated _ right now.”

“You don’t say.”

Jon fixed him with a deadpan look. “I’ve spent half the day on a tour of London’s bookshops in search of a volume which does not appear to exist. It’s…  _ frustrating _ .”

Martin was torn between a laugh and a sympathetic wince. “I understand completely. Shall I leave you to your suffering, then?”

He sighed. His focus  _ was _ already broken, and he wasn’t exactly eager to dive back in. “It’s not as if I was getting anywhere, so I may as well take a break. What brings you here? Some business more pleasant than mine, I hope.”

“Definitely. I just wandered in to look around, really. I’m sure  _ you _ don’t want to hear it right now, but I like the atmosphere in places like this. Even if I’m not going to buy anything, I’ll come in and look around and it’s… it’s soothing, you know?”

“On any other day,” Jon said drily, “I’m sure I would agree with you.”

“I am actually buying something today, though. Look, I found this nice old collection of the Romantic poets.” He held up the book in his hand. It did look nicely bound, with surprisingly little wear for its apparent age. Jon still caught himself scoffing quietly at the contents.

Unfortunately, Martin caught him, too. He gave him a look. “What’s that for?”

Jon winced. It was hard to remember his manners when he was this tired and frustrated, but he knew he ought to apologize and put the words together with some effort. “I’m sorry, I realize that was… quite rude. I’ve never been a fan of poetry, I suppose, not that it excuses me. It just sort of slipped out.”

“Oh.” Martin rubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s not for everyone, I suppose. Although you know, a lot of people who say they don’t like poetry at all just haven’t read the right kind, there’s a lot of variety—this probably… isn’t the best time for my sales pitch, though, heh. Maybe another day.”

“Maybe,” Jon echoed. He didn’t have the energy right now to explain that, in his case, he was pretty sure it really was  _ all _ poetry he didn’t like, that he just didn’t see the point of arranging words in aesthetically pleasing orders at the cost of actually making it clear what you’re trying to say. Any given verse of poetry could be summed up in a single sentence of prose and took about three times as long to comprehend, and Jon, for one, simply did not have the time for that.

“You’re not escaping it next time I see you, though, I’m afraid. The price of knowing me is that you have to sit through at least one poetry rant.”

“Well, I suppose I have that to look forward to then.” Even though he was still talking, Jon’s attention began to drift. The stacks of books he had yet to look through were calling to him with the promise of being able to go home. If he didn’t find what he was looking for, he refused to go in to work tomorrow without at least being able to say in full honesty that he had looked  _ everywhere. _

“Would you… like some help?”

He blinked and looked back at Martin.

“If you’re determined to look through every single shelf in here… I’ve already found what  _ I _ came for, and I don’t have anything else on for the evening, so I could, uh, keep you company, at least. If you want.”

Jon weighed the lessened misery of having someone to complain to against the possibility that Martin’s presence would be a distraction. In the end, however, it was hard to argue in favor of being any more miserable than he absolutely had to. “Alright, if that’s really how you want to spend your night. This is what I’m looking for.” He showed Martin the slip of paper where he’d written it down: a specific edition of a mathematics textbook with, quote,  _ some swirly stuff _ on its cover, supposedly haunted.

“My personal suspicion is that it was not so much  _ haunted _ as  _ owned by an extremely sleep-deprived student who had watched too many horror films over the weekend, _ but as  _ suspicion _ and  _ investigation _ are not synonyms, I have to track down the damn thing in order to prove that there is, in fact, no evil maths-based spirit residing within it.”

“Unless you count the mathematics themselves, I suppose.”

Jon shuddered. “Please don’t even suggest that. We do  _ not _ have the funding to exorcise every single algebra textbook in existence, and more importantly, if I’m asked to retrieve even one more of them I will seriously consider quitting on the spot.”

Martin mimed zipping his mouth shut. “Gotcha. Let me try again, uh… Don’t worry, Jon, I’m sure this is the  _ only _ maths book anyone has ever thought was haunted, and you’ll never have to look at any others the rest of your life!”

He nodded. “Thank you, Martin, I’m sure you’re right. Come on then, the rest of this bookshop isn’t going to search itself.”

They spent another hour in there before, miracle of miracles, Jon somehow uncovered the textbook at the bottom of a discount bin of young adult paperbacks. The sorting decisions of shop owners were a wonder which truly never ceased to amaze. It was a second miracle itself that Jon and Martin were able to make their purchases without any shouting at all and were, when they left the bookshop, still completely welcome to return whenever they chose. Jon did not think he’d be choosing such a thing any time soon.

“Oh,  _ god,” _ he groaned when he opened the door. “Why  _ now?” _

There had been rain in the forecast earlier. Jon had  _ very reasonably _ expected to be back at home by the time it started. Jon had not brought his umbrella with him. Jon currently had no way to avoid ruining the book he’d gone to all this trouble for, short of waiting inside the shop until the wretched downpour came to an end, and who knew how long  _ that _ would take. Longer than he wanted to spend in here, for sure. He’d just realized that in the single-minded focus of his search, the usual time for dinner had come and gone without his noticing. The only thing that stopped him from sinking any further into possibly overdramatic despair was Martin insistently waving a hand in front of his face.

He shook himself. “Hm? What?”

“I was asking if that horribly sad look on your face meant you’d forgotten your umbrella.”

“Oh. Yes, that… that is the situation in which I have found myself.” He wanted to protest the description, but was aware he didn’t have a leg to stand on.

“Well, I have mine,” Martin said, rummaging about in the messenger bag slung over his shoulder as he spoke. Jon didn’t see why he felt the need to rub it in that he’d come better prepared, but kept the thought to himself as Martin opened it up. It was cheerfully rainbow-striped. Martin continued, “I can walk you to the nearest tube station if you like. Wouldn’t want you getting soaked, especially carrying that.”

Jon was… possibly more thrown than he should have been. It  _ was _ a reasonable solution. Perhaps he would’ve thought of it himself, if it weren’t the end of such a very long day, or perhaps his compunction against ever asking for help was too strong to let him consider it an option. He realized he was staring and nodded mechanically. “That would be nice, thank you.”

The walk, squished in under Martin’s umbrella in the fading light, seemed far longer than it had been when Jon made it earlier in the opposite direction. It wasn’t a small umbrella, but then, Martin wasn’t a small man, and Jon was too worried about the hard-won prize in his arms to let himself drift too far away. So he ended up pressed against Martin’s side, slowing their pace noticeably and making Jon worry that he was crossing some sort of unspoken line of which Martin was too polite to inform him. It also didn’t help that he was completely exhausted. If he weren’t almost  _ certain _ it would make things weird, he would have been leaning half his weight on Martin’s shoulder by this point. As it was, he rubbed a hand over his tired eyes and did his best to keep it together, just a little farther. Hopefully he wouldn’t fall asleep in his seat on the way home.

Despite his best efforts, he could feel himself getting drowsy. It was becoming more difficult to walk in a straight line. He closed his eyes for a moment, and strange shapes flickered in his vision, and the next thing he knew, he was shocked awake by cold rain on his face and Martin’s arm was around his waist to haul him back upright. Jon gasped and clutched the textbook to his chest, briefly full of adrenaline at the thought of nearly having dropped it.

“What was that about? Are you okay?” Martin’s voice was full of concern.

He shook his head. “Just… tired. Sorry about that.” He looked around, trying to stay a little more aware of his surroundings. It could only be assumed he was still half asleep when his gaze caught on an odd shape that seemed to be  _ moving _ and he startled, practically jumped, with a little gasp.

“…And what was  _ that?” _

“Nothing,” he snapped a little too quickly.

Martin made a show of looking around. “Oh, no, it’s not the haunted textbook, is it? Because I’m sorry, Jon, any other sort of ghost I might try to help with, but if it’s a  _ maths _ ghost I am  _ out.” _

“There is no  _ maths ghost.” _ Jon sighed heavily. “I was just… if you  _ must _ know, I was— _ surprised  _ by a shadow, alright?” He was bristling defensively at the teasing by now. Somehow, at the same time, he continued failing to notice that Martin hadn’t taken his arm away after setting him on his feet again.

“Perfectly alright,” he agreed. “Happens to the best of us… oh,  _ there _ it is, thank goodness, I was starting to think they’d moved it while we weren’t looking.”

Jon blinked and looked up. It took an amount of effort he did  _ not _ approve of. His head had slipped down gradually to face the ground at some point without so much as asking his consent. It was, indeed, there,  _ it _ being the tube station. The place he was going. Right. “Right. Thank you… thank you for walking me.”

“Any time,” said Martin, a little more earnestly than the rote response deserved. “I suppose this is where I leave you. …You’ll be okay on your own from here, right?”

“Of course I will.” Jon shook his head sharply, trying to force himself alert. It was easier once he stepped away from Martin. The chill of the evening air was much better for keeping him awake than standing right next to someone very warm. Who may or may not have had an arm wrapped around him for the latter half of the walk.

“Of course.” Martin lifted a hand awkwardly, as if not entirely sure what he meant to do with it himself, and turned the motion into a halfhearted wave. “I’ll see you around then.”

Jon nodded and returned the gesture weakly. “See you.”


	7. Chapter 7

Jon had been worried that his encounter at the bookstore with Martin would make things somewhat awkward between them. To his relief, though, Martin didn’t bring it up again, only smiling pleasantly at Jon and greeting warmly whenever Jon returned. And if Martin  _ wasn’t _ at the register, then it was Mike or Michael. The moment that either of them caught sight of Jon, they would abandon the register to find Martin and have him deal with Jon.

Jon didn’t mind that one bit.

He’d become a true regular, visiting Kit-Tea about once a week. Sometimes he would bring work, settling in to do some research with a cat purring in his lap and a warm cup of tea at the ready. Martin made some truly fantastic tea and Jon was keen to take advantage of that fact.

And, well, Martin himself wasn’t bad company. Some days he would hover a bit, ask Jon how his day was going, what he was working on. Jon had been admittedly guarded at first, but as time went on he found himself opening up more and more, even going so far as to ask Martin a few questions in turn. He hadn’t learned anything ludicrous, but he knew more about Martin than he did most people: Martin liked poetry, could perfectly recall just about anyone’s tea preferences, didn’t have what it took to be a cook (his words, not Jon’s), and loved the cats at Kit-Tea more than he could put into words.

It was that last one that had endeared him to Jon more than he cared to admit.

Jon returned once more on a pleasant Sunday afternoon, the sky somewhat overcast but free from the threat of rain. Jon took a brief moment to take in the storefront before he pulled the door open with a small smile.

A panicked yell ripped through the air before Jon could take two steps inside, freezing him to the spot. His eyes found Martin, taking in the expression of fear that twisted his freckled face. Jon had only just processed this before something streaked past his legs, causing him to let out a yelp and stumble back.

Some delirious part of Jon’s brain wanted Martin to catch him. But no, Jon had already regained his balance and was standing steadily on both feet once more. He decided not to look much more into the stray thought.

Besides, there were bigger things to worry about right now.

“Oh god,” Martin breathed out, voice stricken with horror. “Oh  _ god _ .”

Jon felt dread mounting in him. “Was that—?”

“Daisy. Jon, Daisy just  _ got out. _ ”

“Shit,” Jon hissed out.

“What, what am I—oh god, she can’t just be out on the street, she’s not—she’s just—”

Martin was breathing shallowly at a frantic pace and looked like he was two seconds away from bursting into tears. Jon moved on instinct, closing the space between them and placing a tentative hand on Martin’s shoulder. Martin startled, his gaze losing its far-off look and focusing on Jon.

“I, ah.” Jon swallowed. Should he take his hand back now? No, best to keep it there for now. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Jon—”

“If I hadn’t opened the door—”

“No, this isn’t your fault,” Martin insisted. “There’s no way that you could have known—she was staring down a bird through the window and trying to run out. I should have caught her or blocked the door or, or just—it’s not your fault, okay?”

Jon didn’t share Martin’s conviction, but Martin was already so obviously distraught that Jon couldn’t help but nod in agreement.

“Good. Okay. I, I have to go try and find her. Um, Michael can take care of your order, ze’s just in the back but—”

“I’ll go with you.”

Martin paused. “What?”

Jon had blurted the words out without meaning to, but he found that he didn’t regret them in the slightest. “Well, two sets of eyes are better than one. And you can’t just close the cafe so there needs to be enough staff here to run it. And, uh, well, Daisy is one of my favorite cats here; I want to ensure her safety just as much as you do. Really, it only makes sense that I would—”

“Okay, okay.” Martin wasn’t smiling, not quite, but something about his expression had softened. “I—thank you. Let me just tell Michael what’s going on and then we’ll start looking.”

Jon waited as Martin hurriedly ducked into the back. Not even a minute later, Martin was half-jogging back to Jon, Michael following at a more leisurely pace, though Jon could tell that ze was concerned by how zir brow was furrowed. It was a strange look to see on Michael.

“Ready?” Jon asked once Martin had reached him. There was a grim, determined look on his normally soft and round face.

“Yeah,” Martin said, flat and monotone. He pushed open the door leading outside. “Come on, let’s go.”

Jon ducked out, dutifully ignoring the feeling that swelled up in his chest as Martin held the door open for him. They had a cat to find.

As it turned out, finding a cat that had ran off in the streets of London was no easy task. Martin regularly called out Daisy’s name, instantly jumping to attention at even the slightest movement before hurrying over to investigate. Jon did his best to scan everywhere that Martin wasn’t looking, his eyes sweeping about whenever Martin focused on an ultimately fruitless lead.

They searched for hours, looking down every alleyway, questioning each passerby that looked remotely friendly, even going so far as to examine a dumpster because Martin  _ swore _ that he had heard something like a meow from inside of it.

They stumbled across the park just as the sun was setting, exhausted and cat-less in the fading daylight. Jon glanced over at Martin and felt his stomach drop at just how  _ defeated _ he looked.

Martin took another few steps forward before his face crumpled and he stopped, staring down at his feet.

Jon wanted to reach out to touch him. He nearly did, his hand rising only to stop and hang awkwardly in the space between them. He quickly dropped it back to his side. “… Martin?” 

“It’s… it’s getting dark,” Martin said, soft and fragile. “We’ve been out for hours. We should—I need to—”

“We’ll keep looking,” Jon promised. “I, ah, I don’t get into work tomorrow until later in the day”—a lie, but Martin didn’t need to know that—“so I can keep helping. We’ll find her.”

“Will we? I want to, but London is just so  _ big _ and there’s no guarantee that we’re even moving in the right direction and there are so many  _ cars _ out in the road and—”

“She’ll be alright Martin. We’ll find her and take her back to the cafe. It’s, it’s going to be fine.” Jon didn’t dare give voice to his own rising sense of hopelessness. He wouldn’t share his own doubts. Not when Martin looked so devastated.

“I just—you know she was one of the first at Kit-Tea? Well, no, she wasn’t,” Martin rambled, his voice taking on a thick, pained quality. “There were a lot at first, twelve of them, but Daisy was—she was the first one we took in  _ after _ the place opened. I went to the shelter and she was just so cute and  _ alone _ that I couldn’t  _ not _ pick her. She didn’t get along with people at first, did you know that? She would hiss and snarl and scratch but she was so  _ sweet _ with me and, and it sounds silly but I just  _ know _ that she likes being called Daisy better than she ever did  _ Alice. _ And now she—she’s  _ gone. _ I  _ lost _ her.”

“No, it was my fault—”

“It  _ wasn't, _ ” Martin interrupted, rounding on Jon to look him dead in the eyes with a watery glare. “It really wasn’t your fault, okay? If anything, it’s mine. I’m the manager of the cafe and I let her get out.”

“Wait, the manager—no, never mind. Not important right now.”

The smile Martin gave at that was small and strained, but it was real. “Yeah, I am. I still don’t know exactly how it happened. I sort of ended up being the only one that the owner of the place really talked to? So I was always in charge of relaying information to him and figuring out schedules and whatnot. I eventually got a raise for it, too. I might not be officially registered as the manager, but, well.”

“Huh. That’s… certainly one way to climb the ranks.”

Martin let out a quick exhale through his nose. “Yeah, it is. My point is that Daisy— _ all _ of the cats—are my responsibility. And I’ve thoroughly buggered it up.”

“You haven’t,” Jon said. “Come on, let’s keep looking. We still have some time before it’s properly night. And Daisy seems the clever type; even if we don’t find her tonight, I’m sure that she’ll show up eventually.”

Martin simply looked at Jon for a few moments, his gaze unreadable. Just as Jon was about to say something, Martin gave a wobbly nod and brought his hands up to rub his eyes with the palms of his hands. He took in a deep breath. “Right. You’re right. Let’s keep going.”

Jon offered a smile, hoping that it didn’t look too much like a grimace. By Martin’s answering smile, Jon had done well enough.

They had barely walked ten paces when a flash of movement in the corner of Jon’s eye caught his attention. He paused, turned to find the source. There was a patch of bushes only a few meters from him, their foliage dense enough that Jon couldn’t make out anything that may have been hiding in them.

“Did you see something?” Martin whispered.

“Maybe,” Jon replied, taking care to speak just as quietly as Martin was. “I’m going to take a closer look. Ah, watch my back for me?”

Martin gave him a fierce nod. Jon clamped down the urge to smile before turning his attention back to the bushes. He felt a bit silly, creeping towards them with as much stealth as he could muster, but it couldn’t be helped.

Jon was practically on top of the bushes when a clump of greenery shook as if something inside of it was moving. Jon froze, heart in his throat as his eyes locked onto that spot.

The moment he made out the familiar flash of sleek, black and orange fur, Jon lunged.

Jon hissed through his teeth as his bare arms scraped against the hard stems and prickly leaves of the bush, grabbing onto a small, furry body. Martin called out  _ something, _ but Jon couldn’t make it out over the distinctly feline yowl as he pulled his quarry out of the bushes.

She was disheveled and very well  _ not _ pleased, but Jon felt triumph thrumming through his chest as he recognized Daisy. He’d caught her. She was here in his arms, she was alive, she was  _ safe, _ she was—

She was scratching at Jon’s poor arms and face.

Jon let out a yelp of pain as her claws rakes across his skin, but he held fast. He was  _ not _ letting go of her, he  _ refused. _

At some point, Martin had made it to his side, his arms reaching towards Daisy as he spoke low, calming nonsense to her. Jon couldn’t tell whether or not Martin was using actual words or if it was just all in the tone, but that hardly mattered because it was working. Or, it probably was. The adrenaline made it hard to tell what exactly was happening. Everything was a bit of a blur.

It couldn’t have been too much longer afterwards that Jon found himself cradling his scratched-up arms while Martin tenderly held Daisy, cooing at her as he hugged her tightly against his chest. 

They stayed like that for a bit, Martin’s attention completely fixed on Daisy. She was still tense, but Jon could clearly tell that she’d calmed down considerably while in Martin’s arms. The scene before him was far from perfect, but Jon couldn’t help but think it was rather precious.

“Oh my  _ god, _ ” Martin breathed out. His eyes lifted to meet Jon’s, wide and shimmering with unshed tears. “Jon, I can’t—thank you. I can’t say how much this means to me. I don’t know if I’d have gotten her back without you and I just— _ thank you. _ ”

Jon let out a breathy little laugh. “Happy to help.”

“Still, thank you and—oh Christ, are you alright?”

“What? Oh, right.” Jon looked down at his poor arms. “She’s rather ferocious, isn’t she?”

“ _ Jon. _ ”

“Really, I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

“What does that have to do with anything? No, you’re coming back with us. There’s a first aid kit back at Kit-Tea. I can help you clean those up and bandage them.”

“That’s hardly necessary—”

“Do you have any idea how dangerous an infection can be?” Martin demanded. His stern visage was undercut a bit by how cozy Daisy looked to be curled up against him. “No, you’re coming back with us so you can get patched up properly.”

“I’ll be alright, Martin.”

“Not if you get an infection, you won’t be. I’m not kidding about this, Jon. Do you really not know just how bad they can be, because let me tell you—”

Jon bit his lip and considered his options as Martin continued on. As much as he’d like to spend more time with Martin, he didn’t want to be an imposition. But Martin  _ was _ insisting and seemed rather serious about it… 

“Alright,” Jon said abruptly. Martin stopped mid-rant. “You’re right. When you put it like that, an infection certainly sounds… less than ideal. Best to get it taken care of.”

“Oh,” Martin breathed out. “Oh! Yeah, it is. Good to get taken care of, I mean. Um. Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Jon couldn’t help but tease.

“Oh  _ quiet, _ you,” Martin said with a fond roll of his eyes.

They made their way back to Kit-Tea in companionable silence, walking at a brisk pace. The scratches on Jon’s face and arms began to sting and itch about halfway back, and he found himself thankful that he’d taken up Martin’s offer to help treat them. They did briefly consider flagging down a cab, but in the end agreed that it would likely be best for all parties involved if they didn’t take Daisy into a random person’s car. 

Besides, in the privacy of his own mind, Jon could admit that walking back to the cafe together as the street lights flickered on was strangely pleasant.

The sun had well and truly set by the time that they had gotten back to Kit-Tea. The cafe windows were dark and there was no one inside.

“Do you mind holding Daisy for a second?” Martin asked. “I just need to get my keys.”

“Sure,” Jon said. He held his arms out, bracing himself for whatever hell Daisy may see fit to unleash. Despite what he feared, Daisy merely let out a soft trill as Martin handed her over. She seemed quite content to curl up to Jon. Jon stroked her gently as Martin fished his keys out of his pockets.

“I usually lock up at night,” Martin explained as he unlocked the door. “If I’m not here then it falls to Michael or Mike to take care of, but I pretty much always have a set of keys on me. One of the perks of being the manager.”

“Lucky for us,” Jon said. He ducked inside when Martin pulled the door open for him.

Martin followed soon after, flicking a couple lights on, dimly illuminating the cafe. “We keep the cats here to sleep overnight, so try to keep a bit quiet. You can find an open bed to put Daisy in while I dig out the first aid kit.”

“That sounds good,” Jon agreed. He watched as Martin made his way to the back before looking around the cafe. 

Just as Martin had said, it was filled with cats that Jon mostly recognized by now, most of them settling down after a busy day of entertaining patrons. It wasn’t hard for Jon to locate a soft enough bed to gently place Daisy in. She let out a small, tired sound as she sprawled across the bed, her eyes falling closed.

“You’re had quite the adventure, haven’t you?” Jon asked, voice feather-light as he watched her. “Let’s not do that again.”

Jon looked back up at the sound of Martin emerging from the back. He was carrying a bright red kit made of hard, shiny plastic. Martin smiled softly at him as Jon stood back up and made his way over.

“She seems to be doing alright,” Jon said once he’d reached Martin, keeping his voice hushed lest he disturb the other cats.

“Mhm,” Martin hummed. “Now it’s your turn to get checked over. Sit down in that chair, if you’d please.”

Jon took a seat in the chair that Martin indicated, glad to finally be giving his feet a rest. Martin pulled up a chair and sat opposite of him, placing the first aid kit on the table next to them. Martin opened it up and quickly removed the gauze and disinfectant.

He held out a hand. “Arm?”

Jon extended his left arm towards Martin, palm up. Martin gently took it and held it steady as he began to apply the disinfectant. Jon grit his teeth against the harsh string, but held still. He distracted himself by focusing on Martin’s face and trying to pick out the emotions layered in his expression. He was certainly attentive and concerned, that was plain enough to see. There was something else, though. Something warm and gentle that Jon wanted to drown in. He averted his eyes, looking down to where Martin was so tenderly treating his wounds. Jon could feel his heart quickening in his chest.

It wasn’t until Martin had disinfected and wrapped both of his arms that Jon realized what the feeling bubbling up inside of him was.

_ Oh, _ he thought.  _ I have a crush on Martin. _

Jon was  _ very _ proud that he didn’t immediately flail out of Martin’s gentle hold and flee the cafe at a dead sprint. He  _ did _ end up making a small wounded noise that had Martin looking up at him with wide, worried eyes. How had it taken Jon so long to realize how lovely Martin’s eyes were, a warm shade of brown—

_ Get it together Sims. _

“Stings a bit,” Jon blurted out. “I’m fine.”

“… If you’re sure,” Martin said at length.

“I am.”

“Okay. Good. All that’s left is, uh, the scratches on your face.”

Jon swallowed. Did he want Martin to…? Yes. He did. “Would you mind? I don’t think that I’d be able to, uh, tend to them as effectively. You seem to have a, a firm grasp on how to handle this. I mean, obviously you must have dealt with quite a few people getting scratched up by cats, what with this being a cat cafe and all, but—yes. I’d like your help. If you’re amenable.”

Martin was smiling sweetly now, mirth dancing in his eyes. “I am. Scoot a bit closer?”

Jon did so. He closed his eyes just as Martin’s hand came up to cup his jaw. It was broad and warm and calloused, the texture of it brushing pleasantly against Jon’s skin. Jon resolutely stopped himself from leaning into the touch.

The familiar sting of disinfectant soon made itself known once again, but the thing that made Jon’s breath catch was the way that Martin’s fingers would graze against his cheek. It was only the barest whisper of skin-on-skin, but each point of contact between them seemed to spark, leaving Jon’s face heated and tingling. It was somehow worse—no, better? It was  _ more _ when Martin began putting on the bandages, his fingers pressing in gently and smoothing them over Jon’s skin.

After what was both an eternity and only a few seconds, the gentle touches stopped. Jon’s eyes fluttered open.

Martin was leaning in towards him, his face close. From this distance, Jon could pick out each freckle on Martin’s face, could see the pores of his skin, could make out the individual strands of Martin’s curls. Could see how Martin was looking back at him just as intently.

They both seemed to realize their proximity in the same moment, Martin pulling away quickly but smoothly while Jon practically jumped out of his seat with how hard he startled back. Blessedly, Martin didn’t comment on it.

“So, um, bandages,” Martin said. “You’re going to want to change those tomorrow morning. Actually, just remember to change them at least once a day, or whenever they get dirty or wet. I-if they get infected despite all of this, make sure to tend to it as quickly as possible—”

“I’m not  _ completely _ helpless, you know.” Oh god, did he just snap at Martin for trying to be helpful? He didn’t know how the tone of it came off, not fully, and even if he was coming to grips with having a crush, he shouldn’t be  _ snapping— _

“You’re right. Sorry. I’m just worried.”

“No, you’re fine,” Jon assured him. “It’s just… it’s been a long day.”

Martin let out a small chuckle at that. “It really has been, hasn’t it? You probably want to get home soon.”

Jon wasn’t sure if that was a dismissal or not, but it  _ was _ getting rather late and he’d really like some distance from Martin while trying to wrap his head around the fact that he had a  _ goddamn crush _ on him. “Mm. Laying down in bed… that sounds nice right now.”

“Does it ever,” Martin agreed. “You can head out now, if you want to. I need to check some things and make sure that Michael and Mike locked everything up correctly. They can sometimes forget to do some stuff. Or ‘forget’ it, if you get what I mean.”

“They seem the types to, yes.” Jon stood up. He cleared his throat. “Well. I’ll see you soon?”

Martin smiled at him. “See you soon, Jon. And thank you again for all your help.”

It was that smile that stayed with Jon all through his way home and well into his dreams.


	8. Chapter 8

Jon knew he didn’t have any hope of escaping an interrogation when he came in to work with bandages all over his arms and face. He’d already been uncomfortably conspicuous during his morning commute; people kept giving him vaguely concerned looks when they thought he couldn’t see them, then averting their eyes sheepishly when they realized he did. He wondered if he might have been better off leaving the scratches uncovered, but every time he considered it, Martin’s lecture about the dangers of infection played back in his head and he changed his mind.

The point being, he wasn’t exactly surprised when Tim and Sasha cornered him the second he walked through the door.

Tim whistled lowly. “Jeez, what happened to  _ you?” _

Jon pushed past him to his desk and set his things down before saying anything. They weren’t going to let it drop until he answered, though, so he did so with a sigh. “If you must know, I got on the bad side of a cat.”

“What? Explain,” Sasha demanded.

“You remember the cat cafe I told you about? When I went in yesterday, one of the cats made her escape to chase after something she’d seen out the window. Since I had been the one to open the door, I felt somewhat obligated to help Martin catch her, and as you can see, she did not appreciate it.”

Jon finished his explanation, looked up from arranging his desk and saw them both staring at him. He knew it was the sort of staring that meant they were about to tease him mercilessly over something he’d just said.“What are those looks for? I know I’ve mentioned going to the cat cafe before.”

“You haven’t mentioned  _ Martin, _ though,” Sasha informed him. “Who’s that?”

“Ah. He’s… one of the employees. I see him every time I go in.”

Tim raised his eyebrows, and Jon realized where they were going with this slightly too late to stop them. “Oh, really now? Every time?”

He groaned. “Stop it, Tim. Nothing is  _ going on, _ he’s just… I mean, honestly, I don’t know that I can even call him a  _ friend, _ we’ve barely interacted when he wasn’t doing his  _ job.” _

To Jon’s dismay, that information only caused Tim to perk up more. “Barely isn’t the same as never, Jon! You’ve seen him outside work?”

_ “Once. _ He happened to be in a bookshop while I was looking for that godforsaken textbook. He recognized me and said hello, there was a bit of small talk and that’s pretty much  _ it.” _ He judiciously chose to leave out everything covered by the “pretty much” part of that.

Tim and Sasha looked at each other with overly shocked expressions. It was like they’d coordinated it on purpose, or, or  _ rehearsed. _ It was, if Jon was honest, a little bit creepy.

“What do you think, Sash?”

“Oh, definitely.” She nodded with confidence and turned back to Jon. “The man interrupted you for  _ small talk _ and you didn’t bite his head off? You’ve got it bad, Jon.”

“I have  _ not _ got it bad, or indeed any other way,” Jon huffed. “The only thing I’ve  _ got _ is work to be doing. And so have you, although it’s none of my concern if you’d prefer to get a scolding for wasting time.” He very pointedly turned his attention to what was on his own desk. The fact that this was currently a blank sheet of paper was beside the point.

It also didn’t last long before he found his view of it blocked by Sasha, propping her chin on her folded arms after wheeling her chair around to the other side of the desk. “Jooon, come on, don’t ignore us. We all know you weren’t even doing anything yet.”

“We won’t rest until you admit you like the cat cafe man and your life has very possibly become a rom-com,” said Tim, coming up behind him and patting his shoulder.

Jon dropped his head into his hands. It made the scratches sting a bit, but that was less important to him at the moment than demonstrating his exasperation. This archive was a fucking nightmare. “I do  _ not _ have any kind of  _ romantic feelings _ for Martin,” he insisted. “And even if I did, it’s not as if I could do anything about it. It’s just creepy, asking someone out while they’re working. So even if you refuse to believe  _ me, _ I don’t see any point in making a fuss over it. If I  _ were _ in love with him, you’d only be making me sad about how hopeless it is, wouldn’t you?”

“You’ve got a point,” Sasha mused. “However, I  _ do _ feel obliged to point out that neither of us actually said anything about being in love.”

Jon willed himself not to be blushing right now, as he realized she was right. He did not feel at all confident in the success of this effort. “I said I  _ wasn’t _ in love with him.”

Tim hummed. “Not exactly. All you said was that if you  _ were _ in love with him you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”

“I’ll say it now, then. I am not in love with Martin, nor do I have a crush on him, nor do I like him in any way beyond what is appropriate to the friendly acquaintanceship between a cafe employee and a regular customer. Are you both happy now?”

They exchanged a look over his head. “Tell you what,” Tim offered. “Take us to this cat cafe of yours, and we’ll leave you alone about it.”

“What, so you can embarrass him about it as well?”

“No!” He pressed a hand to his chest as if he couldn’t believe Jon would suggest such a thing. “I would never do that to someone I don’t even  _ know. _ That would just make me a jerk.”

“But you’ll do it to  _ me _ without remorse.”

“Because you’re my  _ friend, _ Jon! I show affection by being insufferable, and everyone around me just has to live with that. You know I’d shut up if you were actually upset about it.”

Jon did know that, and somewhere deep down he appreciated that they both felt close enough with him to cheerfully annoy the hell out of him on a regular basis. It still didn’t stop him from grumbling, just a bit.

“I won’t bother Martin at all, promise. I just want to see what’s so great about the place that makes you keep going back. It’s unfair, keeping it all to yourself.”

“Well, I’ll give you a hint, Tim,” he said dryly. “It’s the cats.”

“Then show us the cats!” Sasha chimed in. “I bet you know all their names by now; you can introduce us.”

Jon rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself. “Alright. If that’s to be the price of having any peace this morning, I’ll show you to the cat cafe later as long as you promise not to make a scene.”

“Cross my heart,” Sasha intoned solemnly, and nearly knocked Jon’s pens all over the floor while standing up. He caught the cup they were in and gave her a look. “Oops.”

Tim clapped him on the shoulder again. “When we have our lunch break, then. Don’t forget, we’ll hold you to it!”

“I’m sure you will,” Jon muttered. It didn’t come out all that annoyed. It might actually be a nice time, showing them the cafe and all, if he knew they wouldn’t embarrass him in front of anyone who might happen to be there. He  _ could _ introduce them to most of the cats, and it might do something to curb their only half-joking suspicion that he never did anything outside of work. He was, given a reasonable amount of caution, looking forward to it.


	9. Chapter 9

None of them got much work done in the time leading up to lunch. When they finally took their break, Tim and Sasha practically dragged Jon out of the building before realizing they couldn’t lead the way to the cafe, on account of not yet knowing where it was. Jon gave them a look which said everything he was thinking, which mostly went along the lines of them both being idiots of whom he, somewhat regrettably, nonetheless found himself fond. It was a nice day, as far as that went in London, and he found himself smiling as he led them down the pavement.

They were cooing over the cats before they even got inside. Jon restrained himself from doing the same, but only barely, and only because he liked to think he had more respect for the animals than to indulge in the nonsense baby-talk Sasha was currently mumbling in the direction of the cat sunning itself in front of the window. Mike was at the register today, and Jon nodded to him very awkwardly. He’d apologized for his original… bad impression, eventually, sort of, by having Martin relay the sentiment for him, but he knew the man was never going to be his biggest fan. Which was fine; he just hoped it wouldn’t set a weird tone for this visit.

Jon hesitated for just a second, and Tim got to the counter before he did. Maybe that was for the best. He seemed to have picked up on the slight tension, so maybe he would act as a buffer and smooth it over.

“Welcome to Kit-Tea, what can I get started for you?”

Tim looked Mike up and down, and Mike raised his eyebrows to indicate that one, it had not been subtle, and two, if Tim was about to say something stupid he’d better reconsider. He looked slightly thrown when the first thing out of Tim’s mouth was, “Any chance  _ you’re _ on the menu?”

Mike was not prepared to respond to that, and stood for a few long seconds in blank silence. Tim was beginning to look slightly mortified that he’d said it. “No,” said Mike flatly. “We have drinks and food. Do you want any of it or not?”

“Yes,” said Tim a bit miserably. They all gave their orders and, somehow, escaped the interaction alive.

Tim put his head on the table as soon as they sat down. “I’m an idiot.”

Sasha patted his shoulder. “I know, Tim.”

“I was trying to break the tension, you know, make it less awkward.”

“That is not what you did, Tim.”

“I can never come back here again.”

“Very possible.”

It was at this point that he ran out of words and simply groaned into his hands.

“If it helps at all,” Jon offered, “the first thing  _ I _ said to him was actually worse than that.”

Tim lifted his head slightly. “Thanks, Jon. It’s good to know I’m still  _ slightly _ more socially competent than you. Means a lot to me.”

He nodded. “You’re welcome.”

They sat in silence for another thirty seconds before Tim looked up again. “In my defense, though—”

“Oh, no,” Sasha sighed.

“Listen. My only strategy was to say the first thing that came into my head. It’s not my fault if my first thought was  _ shit, that guy is hot, _ and then I couldn’t remember how to have any  _ other _ thoughts after that.”

Jon squinted at him. “I’m  _ fairly _ sure—”

Sasha held up a finger. “Shh, let him have this.”

“Thank you, Sasha.” Tim’s voice was muffled, on account of how his head was on the table again.

When their lunch arrived, it was Martin who brought it, of course. Mike would have told him when Jon came in. “Hi, Jon!” he greeted as he set everything on the table. “Who are your friends?”

Jon smiled. “Hello, Martin. Yes, these are my coworkers, Tim and Sasha. I’ve mentioned coming here so often, I suppose they wanted to know what the hype was about.” More or less accurate. He certainly wasn’t going to tell him the  _ entire _ line of conversation which had led to them being here.

Tim perked up and propped his chin on his hands, looking as if nothing had ever been wrong. “So  _ you’re _ the famous Martin!”

“I-I guess?” He laughed. “Has Jon told you about me?”

“Oh, we’ve heard a  _ lot _ about you,” said Sasha, exchanging a knowing look with Tim. Jon glared at them both, not that it deterred them any.

Martin was turning a bit pink and awkward. “Good things, I hope?”

“I told them about the  _ incident _ yesterday,” Jon interjected, before either of them could give their own version of events. “It would have been difficult to get away with keeping it from them, when I came in to work looking like this.”

He winced at the reminder of the state of Jon’s hands and face. “I really am sorry about that.”

“I’ve told you it wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, but still… You remember what I told you about—”

“Yes, Martin, I know how to take care of the scratches.” He bit his tongue on an additional reminder that he  _ was, _ in fact, nearly thirty years old, and Martin did not need to treat him like a child. It was technically true, but also, as he realized in time to stop himself, uncalled for and rude. Which might have at least convinced Tim and Sasha that Jon really didn’t have feelings for him, but at what cost?

Speaking of those two, they exchanged some sort of look, apparently believing Jon couldn’t see them. Before he could decipher what it was supposed to mean, though, Michael came out of the kitchen and walked up behind Martin, resting its chin on his head. Judging by the resigned look on Martin’s face, this was a common occurrence.

“Hello, what’s going on over here, and why didn’t anyone tell me about it?”

Martin sighed. “Because I knew you were going to do  _ this, _ and I didn’t want you scaring Jon’s friends off. And Mike couldn’t be bothered, I expect.”

“Rude.” Michael pouted. Then it processed what Martin had said, and its eyes widened comically. “Wait, Jon’s friends?”

“Oh, no,” Jon muttered.

“Yep!” Sasha must not have received his attempt to telepathically communicate that talking to Michael was  _ not _ a good idea.

“Jon has  _ friends?” _

“Don’t be rude,” Martin chided.

“I just don’t understand how such a  _ boring _ man could have such interesting friends!”

Jon was, at this point, far beyond being insulted by anything Michael said, and took it as a simple question. “We work together,” he offered as explanation, which seemed to be accepted.

Martin rolled his eyes. “You’re just happy that one of them flustered Mike.”

“Wait, I what?”

“Well,  _ maybe,” _ Michael admitted. “But I can appreciate good entertainment and  _ also _ think they seem interesting. In fact—” It reached around Martin to grab the tray he’d brought everything out on and moved Tim and Sasha’s food to a different table. “I’m going on break and I’m stealing your friends, Jon!” They went along with it, too, because they were horrible traitors. Sasha even accepted Michael’s hand to help her out of her chair, and when it proceeded to spin her around she just went with it, laughing. Tim was slightly more dignified about it, but that didn’t change the fact that he left Jon to go sit with Michael.

Jon rolled his eyes. “Just be sure you return them in one piece.”

After a moment, Martin sat down in one of the chairs that were now empty, next to Jon. “You probably won’t let me apologize for whatever  _ that _ was that just happened, either.”

“Well spotted.” Jon sipped his tea. “I don’t entirely mind. Better them than me, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I guess if they wanted to know about the cafe, they might as well get the full ridiculous experience of it?”

“Right! Which is why we have no obligation to rescue them.”

“Exactly.” 

Jon considered the three of them. It looked like they were having a pretty good time over there, actually. It was hard to catch what was being said, but if Jon had to guess, he would say Michael was testing them with its collection of weird riddles. Jon had thoroughly failed that particular test, mostly by refusing to even try to answer, but Tim and Sasha must have been more receptive.

One of them said something, and they all looked back at the original table before returning to their conversation. Jon pushed down impatiently on a residual childhood instinct to suspect they were making fun of him.

“It’s nice to meet some of your friends,” said Martin. Jon thought it was nice of him to imply that he must also have others. Which, yes, he did… technically… he just. Hadn’t seen most of them in person for at least ten years.

He nodded. “And they haven’t embarrassed me nearly as much as I was afraid of.”

Martin snorted. “What did you  _ think _ they were going to do?”

“Ah.” It occurred to Jon that he probably shouldn’t  _ tell _ Martin his coworkers thought he had a crush on him. “Just, you know… how, uh… how friends are. They can be…”

“Sure,” Martin agreed, graciously saving Jon from himself. “Wouldn’t want them telling embarrassing stories about you or something.”

“Yes! Yes, exactly, that.” He glanced at them again. The other table looked conspiratorial in a way he did not like, and he resolved to watch out for office pranks in the near future, just in case Michael was giving his coworkers ideas. “Although I’m not sure that isn’t what’s happening right now.”

Martin followed his line of sight and made a sympathetic face. “Hmm. Maybe… maybe just try not to worry about it?”

“Probably all I  _ can _ do,” he sighed. Subject change… subject change that would  _ not _ put him in dangerous territory again… “How, uh, how have the cats been, since the last time I saw them?”

“Since yesterday, you mean?”

“…Yes.” Jon refused to admit he had forgotten it had only been a day. It’d felt like longer, and he thought that should count for something. It probably didn’t, but it should.

The corners of Martin’s mouth quirked up. Jon decided it wasn’t so bad, after all, to sound a little bit ridiculous. “Well, Daisy sulked half the night. She was pretty annoyed about not being allowed to murder small animals.”

“I noticed.” He caught Martin’s expression.  _ “Don’t _ try to apologize again, that was a joke.”

He nodded sheepishly. “Oh, I’ve got a picture of her hiding from me under the sofa, actually, do you want to see?”

“Of  _ course _ I want to see, Martin. What do you take me for?”

Martin showed him the picture—Daisy looked  _ very _ disgruntled, eyes shining in the dark as she waited for someone to walk by so she could take the loss of her brief freedom out on their feet—and then proceeded to  _ also _ show him half his camera roll, which was mostly full of cat pictures. Jon didn’t notice the time passing, but suddenly Tim and Sasha were back, informing him they needed to get back to work if they didn’t want Gertrude tracking them down herself. Most of Jon’s food was still untouched.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll get you a box and you can take it with you.” Martin must have seen the lost expression on his face as he tried to figure out where the past half hour had gone.

“Right, sure. Thank you.”

Tim and Sasha looked at each other over his head. Jon did his level best not to notice it. He boxed up his food, thanked Martin again, and left the cafe. He was still slightly disoriented. Fortunately, the other two now knew how to get back, and they returned in time to avoid the displeasure of the head archivist. There was an odd sort of energy in the air, but Jon chalked it up to an especially good mood after going out for lunch together and went back to his work. It was the end of the day before anything came of it.

As Jon was packing up his things to go home, Tim and Sasha wandered a little too casually over to his desk. “So,” Tim said. “About your Martin.”

“He isn’t…” He shook his head. There was no point drawing out this nonsense by arguing every detail. “What about Martin?”

Sasha leaned on the edge of his desk. “We know you said you don’t have a crush on him…”

“Because I don’t.”

“…And that even if you did, there’d be no point saying anything about it.”

“Also correct.”

“But,” Tim cut in, “we were talking to Michael in the cafe…”

“Martin’s coworkers are pretty sure he likes you,” Sasha finished. “So, you know, if you  _ did _ happen to feel the same… he’d probably be happy to know about it.”

Tim nudged her. “More like  _ dead certain. _ As in, he’s all but admitted it.”

Jon looked between them, his face carefully blank. “Forgive me if I’m not exactly eager to believe that, given the source. Not that I think either of you would go as far as that for a joke, but I wouldn’t put it past Michael.”

Sasha frowned. “Do you think Michael would do that to you?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately. Maybe it wasn’t a fair assumption, but it was definitely safer than assuming the opposite.

“Okay, different question,” Tim corrected. “Do you think Michael would do that to  _ Martin?” _

Jon bit his lip. “…No.”

“There you have it, then.”

He stared into space for a brief while, frowning to himself, until Sasha poked him.

“Can’t help but notice, you haven’t said anything at all about how little this information should matter to you. You know, on account of how you don’t have a crush on Martin either way?”

Jon’s head hit his desk with a soft  _ thunk. _ Tim patted his back consolingly. “It’s okay, Jon. You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met and we love you anyway.”

He gave a worryingly heavy sigh before looking up, defeated. “…Do you really think I should tell him?

“Unless you’d rather both of you waste away pining forever, yeah.”

Jon stared through the wall some more.

“…Oh, don’t tell me you’re actually considering that as an option.”

“Come on, Jon.” Sasha appeared in his vision. He thought it was rude of her to block his view of the nothing he’d been looking at. “If it goes horribly wrong and you’re never going to be able to face him again, I will personally find another cat cafe for you to switch to, okay?”

Damn. That… did actually make him feel slightly better. Not entirely, since Martin himself had become an important component of the Kit-Tea experience and there wasn’t likely to be another one of  _ him _ Sasha could find, but… Well. The fact that Jon was even thinking that was telling, wasn’t it?

“I’ll consider it,” he said at last. Tim and Sasha, who had been waiting for his response with bated breath, cheered and pulled him to his feet.

“Next time you see him, okay?” Tim instructed. “And if you need any flirting tips, you can always ask me!”

Jon raised an eyebrow at him through the vague sense of unreality that had descended as soon as he’d realized this was actually happening. “Right, because you were so good at it earlier.”

Tim spluttered. “That’s, that’s just because I wasn’t really  _ trying _ to flirt, alright, it was—it was  _ accidental. _ Anyway, who else are you going to ask? Sasha? She doesn’t even  _ do _ that sort of thing.”

“And yet,” Sasha smirked, “I’m still better at it than you. That’s kind of sad, Tim, I almost feel sorry for you now.”

“Not sorry enough to be  _ nice _ to me, I see,” he grumbled.

“Nope!”

Jon held up a hand to stop them both from suggesting that he ask  _ Gertrude _ for dating advice, or something equally terrifying. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll be able to handle this  _ without _ your help.”

“Good luck,” they called as he left, “and don’t forget to tell us what happens!”

He almost managed to make it out of the building before it all hit him. The anxiety of what he was planning to do finally reached him through the haze of not quite being able to believe he was actually planning to do it, and he suddenly very badly needed to sit down. He hugged his bag to his chest and reminded himself to breathe until he was… not  _ calm, _ but no longer in immediate danger of hyperventilating.

The next time he went into Kit-Tea, Jon was going to ask Martin out.

_ Fuck. _


	10. Chapter 10

The day Jon chose to maybe ruin everything was a Saturday. The nice thing about this was that he didn’t have work, which gave him plenty of time to prepare himself. The less nice thing about this was that he didn’t have work, which gave him plenty of time to become an absolute nervous wreck.

What had he been  _ thinking, _ letting Tim and Sasha talk him into something this stupid? Martin was going to hate him. He probably didn’t even consider Jon a friend, really—like he’d pointed out earlier, before he had apparently lost the greater part of his sanity.

He still maintained that it was creepy to attempt any romantic overtures with someone who was doing their job at the time. In order to avoid this, his plan was to go to the cafe, wait for Martin to go on break or his shift to be over, and then ask him if he would mind accompanying Jon somewhere else. Preferably somewhere that might set the mood a little bit better than Martin’s workplace. That way, Martin didn’t have to go along with it, and could leave at any time if he wanted to. Jon  _ really hoped _ he would not want to. Still, in rehearsing what he was going to say once he spoke to Martin alone, he had built in multiple reminders that it was an option. The last thing Jon wanted was to make him feel trapped.

He’d practiced until he knew his planned speech by heart. He’d worried over what to wear for nearly an hour before deciding that his first idea of looking nice was more  _ job interview _ than  _ date _ and simply picked out the best available version of what he wore every day. (Besides, if he looked unusually nice, Martin might ask why, and what was he supposed to tell him then?) He’d packed his current work assignment into his bag so that no one would question him sitting in the cafe until Martin was free. After spending most of the day trying to prepare, he was as ready as he was ever going to be. Now, the only thing left was to get over there and do this.

As soon as he walked through the door, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and leave again. Michael was at the counter today, and not only talked to Jon with barely any animosity, but seemed to be fighting off the urge to wink at him every five seconds. It was deeply unsettling. He escaped to a table as quickly as he could.

While waiting for the tea he’d ordered, he bounced his leg under the table and twisted the edge of the tablecloth in his hands like he was trying to rip it in half. He was so busy being nervous, he didn’t even notice Daisy walking over until she meowed demandingly and took a swipe at his shoelaces.

“Ah!” He looked down. “Are you still mad at me for the other day? It’s for your own good, you know, you’d be getting in fights with strays all the time if they let you roam around outside.” He scritched her head, and she meowed again. “Yes, I’m sure that would make  _ you _ very happy, but we’d rather you didn’t get hurt.”

Jon was forgiven enough to be allowed to pet her, at least. He probably shouldn’t have been getting cat fur on the outfit it had taken him so long to decide on earlier, but really, it wouldn’t be fair to expect him  _ not _ to pet any cats. In his current state of anxiety, he needed it more than ever. After some consideration, Daisy put her paws on the edge of his chair, then jumped up onto his lap. He allowed this even though she was getting fur on the tablecloth; he was mostly just glad she liked him again. “Yes, yes, hello to you too—mmf.” She headbutted him in the face. “Daisy,  _ please, _ I—” He glanced around to confirm that no one else was in hearing range. “I’m trying to make a good impression right now, alright? Do you think Martin will take me seriously if he sees me letting you walk all over me?” She put her paws on his shoulder and rubbed her face on his glasses, knocking them askew. “Right. I see. You don’t care, because you’re a cat, and the only thing that matters to you is how criminal it is that I’m not devoting one hundred percent of my attention to petting you right now. I don’t know what else I expected.”

When Martin came out with his tea, anything Jon might have tried to say to him to sound smooth was forgotten, and all he could do was give him a long-suffering look over the demanding little ball of fur in his lap. That was, now he thought about it, probably for the best.

“Come on, Daisy, let the man drink his tea.” He scooped her up from Jon’s lap and deposited her on the floor. Jon shoved down the part of his mind that wished Martin would do that with  _ him _ instead. The cat gave him a disgruntled look and stood there for a moment, before sprinting off to do who knew what. Martin sighed. “And now I’ve got to wash my hands before I can touch anything else.”

Jon gave him a smile. “I appreciate your sacrifice.” His heartbeat picked up as he remembered he needed to ask Martin when he’d be free. “I, uh—”

Martin spoke at the same time. “So—oh, sorry, you first.”

Feeling his face heat up, Jon waved him off. “No, go ahead.” Anything to buy himself a little more time before he had to actually do what he came here for.

“…I’ll just, uh, wash my hands and be back in a minute. Don’t want to forget, you know? Then you can tell me whatever your thing was?” He hurried off. It occurred to Jon that he should probably do the same, but he wasn’t going to  _ follow _ Martin and make everything more awkward.. And it wasn’t as if drinking tea involved directly touching it, unless you were doing something very wrong, so… it was fine.

As promised, Martin came back a minute later. He must have gone back into the kitchen while Jon wasn’t paying attention, too, because when he returned, he set a plate on the table containing two chocolate croissants. Jon raised his eyebrows at him.

Martin laughed sheepishly. “That’s what I was going to say. We, uh, we made too many this morning, so I thought… better to give them to you than let them get stale and go to waste, right?”

“How lucky for me. Thank you, Martin.” Maybe the sentiment was a little stronger in his voice than was warranted, but he couldn’t entirely keep it out. It really was very fortunate. These were one of Jon’s favorite pastries, and he especially liked the ones they made here. Although, to be fair, he liked pretty much everything here. Maybe they would give him the strength to go through with this.

He smiled. “No problem.” For a few more seconds, he lingered next to the table, but he didn’t say anything. Both of them were clearly feeling the awkward and nervous energy Jon had brought in with him today. They made snatches of eye contact, trying to think of something that would disperse the weirdness, but it didn’t happen, and eventually Martin coughed, mumbled something about getting back to work, and left. Of course it would be right after he turned to leave that Jon remembered what he’d meant to ask him. He let him go. Maybe after finishing his tea and pastries, he’d be able to get the question out without tripping over the words.

Jon started to worry when Mike came out to collect his dishes, not Martin. Looking back over their interaction, he didn’t think he’d done anything particularly  _ wrong, _ so he was probably just busy doing something else. Just because this had barely ever happened before didn’t  _ have _ to mean there was a problem. It also didn’t  _ have _ to mean anything that Mike gave him a very odd look the whole time, which Jon couldn’t quite decipher. Mike frequently gave people odd looks, on account of how he didn’t like most of them and was merely tolerating their presence until he could get back to his preferred state of only interacting with the cats and his coworkers.

So he couldn’t ask Martin when his shift ended yet, and he definitely wasn’t going to ask someone  _ else. _ It was fine. He’d been planning to stick around until that time anyway, so he could just set up on the sofa with his computer and… wait to see when Martin left? Sure. That didn’t sound creepy at all. Okay, no, that wasn’t what Jon was doing, he was just… waiting to see him again. So that he could ask. As soon as he saw Martin not looking too busy, he would definitely, for sure, ask him when he would be free.

The problem with this plan was that Martin looked busy all the time. Or at least, Jon had very little trouble convincing himself so. Sure, maybe he wasn’t actively doing anything at the moment, but taking a minute to rest in between tasks was important, too. Jon couldn’t just  _ interrupt _ that by trying to talk to him. And if he was talking to someone else, well… he was already talking to someone else, which also counted as being busy. It would have been rude to cut that conversation short just to ask Martin a question.

He had been sitting here for two hours. If nothing else, at least he was occasionally getting a very small amount of work done, in between all the fretting and trying not to look like he was staring at Martin. …If he gave up on today and came back tomorrow, Tim and Sasha didn’t need to  _ know _ he’d come in today, did they? He wasn’t going to see them again until Monday, so all they needed to hear was that he’d gone to the cafe over the weekend. He could get away with calling today a… a practice run, of sorts, making a note of when Martin left, and hoping he would be there at the same time tomorrow so that the note wouldn’t be completely useless.

Jonathan Sims was no good at lying to anyone else, but he could fool  _ himself _ to a degree that was almost concerning. He turned his attention on his computer for real, rather than just hiding behind it, and did his level best to ignore the fact that he was meant to have been doing something else. He succeeded so well, he came close to forgetting where he was entirely. …Until Martin appeared out of nowhere and sat down next to him, at least.

“Sorry, did I scare you?”

Jon tried to school his expression away from startled fear and into something more pleasant. “Martin! You… you surprised me.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “I noticed. For a second there I was afraid you were going to throw your pen at me.”

He looked at his hand, which was indeed holding his pen rather more tightly than normal. “Sorry.”

“No, that was my fault, I’ll give you a bit more warning next time.”

Jon nodded. “Right. So, what—what brings you over here?”

“Just wondered what you were so busy with,” Martin said with a shrug. “I’m on my lunch break right now, and already got the ‘lunch’ part out of the way, so. Thought I’d wander over and chat. You seemed… very focused.”

“I was.” Jon realized, after a second, how that sounded. “I mean, not that you, you didn’t—I am always happy to talk to you, Martin.”

“Well, I appreciate that. May I ask what it is you were so focused  _ on?” _

He was deeply grateful that the most honest answer was no longer ‘trying to convince myself to attempt asking you out.’ “Just something for work,” he said, and tilted the computer so Martin could see the document he was typing up.

Martin skimmed it and made a face. “Thank you for reminding me there’s a good reason I never went to university.  _ So _ much academic jargon.”

“Sometimes I don’t know what I was thinking, myself,” he responded with a wry smile. “At least I haven’t been required to track down any more incredibly specific books since the last one.”

“That’s a relief. I’d hate to see you lose your job because you murdered your boss in a fit of frustrated rage.” He scooted closer. Jon was  _ very _ aware of their exact proximity to each other. He could feel the warmth of Martin’s body, now, and it took half his focus not to lean into it. “D’you wanna explain what you’re doing there?”

Jon was both happy to explain his work to anyone who wouldn’t call it boring (always) and grateful for a solid distraction from his embarrassing thoughts regarding Martin’s arms (right now specifically). He was still going, though now on some tangent about the institute’s library, when Martin held up a hand to stop him. He realized he’d been talking for something like fifteen minutes without pause.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, ah. Monologue at you.” 

“I knew what I was getting myself into.” Martin gave him a lightly teasing smile. “You’ve done it enough times before. I think I’d have said something by now if I minded.”

He nodded. He was still sort of… well, he really  _ hadn’t _ meant to go on like that, and it bothered him that he couldn’t always stop himself.

“Much as I’d like to hear the end of wherever that was going, though, my break’s almost over, so I should probably get ready to go back to work.”

“Of course.” Damn, Jon still hadn’t managed to ask him-

“I’d offer to come back to it when my shift’s over, but I doubt you’ll still be here when we close, unless you’re really determined to spend your whole Saturday working.”

“Right. Uh, probably not.”

“See you,” he said, and went to wash his hands again before going back to work.

Catching him after his shift wasn’t going to work, then. Jon was both relieved and disappointed. He’d have to wait until tomorrow after all. Maybe he should find out when or  _ if _ Martin was working tomorrow, or if he had the day off? He should have asked him about that before he left—just casually, mentioning that he hoped he wouldn’t have to come back tomorrow morning after closing today. Martin had given him the perfect opening, if he’d only been thinking quickly enough to take it.

Maybe he could just… wait a bit longer and see if he got another chance. There were a few hours yet before the cafe closed; Martin could take another break, or even if not, they might have an especially slow period where he had nothing to do for a while, and Jon would be faster this time and talk to him before anyone else got there first. He didn’t want to spend half the day stressing himself out over this and the other half here, only to go home with nothing to show for it and once again have trouble sleeping thanks to the anxiety.

So he stayed and waited for an opportunity, and tried to get some more work done in the meantime. At some point, he realized just how long it had been since lunch and bought a sandwich. He then spent the entire time he was eating it struggling to keep Wheat Bread off the table, because he’d made the mistake of asking for tuna salad. He’d told himself it came with a little mint, so he didn’t need to worry about his breath, but he’d completely forgotten to worry about the cats.

“I don’t think I should let you have any of this.” The cat yowled at him. “No, really. There’s onion in it. I read somewhere cats shouldn’t eat onions.”

Wheat Bread was unimpressed, but Jon was firm. Mostly. When he finally relented and offered a bit of tuna salad he’d checked did  _ not _ have any onion, it was only a  _ small _ bit, and he didn’t let himself be worn down into giving up any  _ more _ of his dinner after that. For Jon, that was better than he usually managed to do in the “not allowing cats to push him around” department.

He hadn’t seen Martin in a while, and he wasn’t getting much work done. The only thing he seemed to be getting, in fact, was a headache from staring at his computer for so long. He should’ve thought to put a few paracetamol in his bag along with everything else, but it was too late for that now. He should leave at this point, go home and tell himself he’d at least tried. Public transit sounded deeply unpleasant at the moment, though. Before he got up to leave, he’d just rest his eyes for a few minutes and see if it made him feel any better. Then he would go.

When Jon opened his eyes again, it was dark outside, and for a concerning few seconds he didn’t know where he was or what was happening. His memories returned in bits and pieces, and he realized he must have fallen asleep on the sofa in the cafe. How embarrassing. Why hadn’t anyone woken him up?

The headache was long gone, at least. He was stretched out horizontal on the sofa, with all his work things neatly arranged on the coffee table in front of it. There was a decorative pillow tucked under his head, a soft and use-worn blanket covering him, and Wheat Bread dozing on his chest. It shouldn’t have been especially comfortable, but it was, and he didn’t want to move. The lights were dim now, the cafe mostly empty. He could hear one other person moving around and quietly humming.

Martin.

_ Oh. _

He struggled to sit up, dislodging the cat which had claimed him for a bed. “Martin?” His voice came out hoarse after his nap, and he coughed.

There was a distant clatter of something being set down before Martin materialized out of the darkness. “There’s water on the table for you,” he told Jon. His voice was low and soft—too much so, Jon barely knew how to handle it, especially right after waking up. He reached for the glass of water and took a long drink. His hands were shaking just a little. It must have been because he wasn’t entirely awake yet. Just that. Martin sat down next to him and adjusted the blanket now pooled over Jon’s legs until it was even, apparently without thinking about it. He was only a couple layers of fabric away from touching him. Jon shivered.

“Martin…” He set the glass down. “Martin, I—”

“Jon—”

They both stopped. “Oh, not this again.” Jon breathed a laugh; the best he could do with the little energy he had. “Go ahead, Martin.”

Martin’s eyes caught on his for a second before he looked away. “You shouldn’t work yourself so hard,” he said, and Jon got the feeling it wasn’t the same sentence he’d originally begun. “I meant to wake you up when we closed, but you were  _ really _ out. Honestly, if your job expects you to do that much on your weekend—”

“No, it’s… that was all my idea. I wanted to talk to you.”

His brow furrowed. “Were you  _ actually _ trying to wait for my shift to be over? You could have come back tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t sure you would be here, tomorrow.” Jon rubbed at his eyes and took a deep breath. “Sasha said that Michael told her you had… feelings. For me.”

“Oh.” Martin stilled and muttered mostly to himself, “I am going to  _ kill _ Michael.”

Jon slumped. “It’s, it’s not true, I assume. That’s fine, I—well, I rather expected it, I mean…” He gestured to himself in an explanatory sort of way. Of course Martin wouldn’t be interested in  _ him, _ given… everything. It shouldn’t have been possible for him to get any smaller at this point, but he was managing anyway.

Martin caught his hands before he could finish the gesture, and Jon’s brain more or less shut off.

For a long few seconds, the only thought in his mind was the bright point where Martin’s hands covered both his own. He was saying something, too—it was probably important, Jon should listen to him. He blinked and lifted his gaze to Martin’s face.

“There you are, are you listening?”

He nodded. It was all he felt he could do, at the moment.

“Right.” Martin bit his lip. “I do, uh,  _ have feelings _ for you, as you put it. I like you a lot, Jon. I was…” He chuckled to himself. It was a very nice sound. “I was actually, ah, trying to work up the nerve to tell you, when you came in today.”

Jon found his voice again, though it came out quiet. “That’s… that’s what I was trying to do as well.”

Martin squeezed his hands. Jon thought that was a pretty risky move if he wanted him to stay coherent enough to finish this conversation. “You mean-?”

A shy smile crept onto his face. “I like you a lot, too, Martin.” He squeezed back. “It’s just, apparently I couldn’t  _ tell _ you that without, without exhausting myself worrying about it and then passing out for several hours, first.”

Jon tried to keep a straight face, as the absurdity of the situation hit him, but it didn’t work. In another second he’d dissolved into giggles, and Martin was laughing as well.

“Tim is going to love this,” he managed. “He  _ told _ me my life had turned into a rom-com.”

By the time they both calmed down, between the circumstances and the sudden  _ relief, _ Jon felt like he might just fall asleep again. He stifled a yawn and leaned against Martin’s side, having suddenly realized he was  _ allowed _ to do so. Martin didn’t miss a beat before wrapping an arm around his narrow shoulders to bring him closer. Jon was tucked into his side, and it was… perfect. He pressed his face into the crook of Martin’s neck and sighed.

“Okay, no, come on, you’re not sleeping here.”

Jon whined. “Don’t see why not.”

“You’ve got a perfectly good bed at home. And  _ I _ want to go home, which I can’t do if you’re using me as a pillow. Come on, up.”

He reluctantly stood, if only because Martin was already getting up and Jon was forced to choose between staying on the couch and clinging to him. There was a clear winner in that contest.

“Will you be alright getting home?”

“Of course,” said Jon in an affronted mumble. He shook himself more awake. “I’m alright. You’re just very…” He yawned. “Very comfortable to lean on. I’ll wake up once I get outside, I’m sure.”

“Well, if you’re sure.” He hesitated. “Here, how about—let me give you my number. So you can text me when you’re home safe, and I won’t have to worry about you.”

Jon looked at him sideways and smiled. “And for other reasons, I hope?”

Martin laughed softly. “And for other reasons.”

“Go ahead.” Soon enough, they had exchanged contact information—strange how you could know someone for so long without ever doing that—and Jon wavered in the doorway, about to leave. Martin was more or less forcing himself to let him go without any more fussing.

“I’ll tell you when I’m home.”

“You’d better. Wouldn’t want me thinking a ghost finally got you.”

“And… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it.” He held himself back for another moment, and then stepped forward and pulled Jon into a hug. Jon melted into him, and showed no sign of moving until Martin decided they couldn’t stand there all night and let him go. “Goodnight, Jon.”

Smiling up at him in the moonlight, Jon found one of his hands and squeezed it. “Goodnight, Martin.”


	11. Epilogue

Jon returned to the cafe the very next morning. This visit was so vastly different from yesterday’s, even though everything was so superficially similar. He’d slept this time, for one. He walked in with far more confidence, although he was still nervous that he would somehow find a way to mess things up. Most importantly, while yesterday he’d spent half the day in Kit-Tea, today he wasn’t staying long at all. He was only coming in to catch Martin at the end of his shift, so they could leave together and go on their first date.

Mike allowed him in without having to pay, since everyone in the cafe knew what he was there for, and sat down on the sofa to wait. He couldn’t stop smoothing out the fabric of his trousers despite the fact they had never been wrinkled in the first place. Then Daisy appeared out of nowhere to demand his attention and got fur all over them, which, really, it wasn’t even the first time this had happened, he probably should have worked out some way to stop her doing it by now. Other than not letting her on his lap in the first place, which was obviously out of the question. The cat was unmoved by his grumbling. It probably didn’t help that he kept petting her the whole time, and he was aware of this, but he needed something to do with his hands so he wouldn’t get up and start pacing, okay?

And then Martin was there, and suddenly, Daisy’s complaints about being ignored were going unanswered. She jumped off of Jon’s legs just in time to avoid getting knocked onto the floor as he stood up.

“Oh, Jon, there you are. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” Martin was a little bit nervous himself, cheeks dusted pink and hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. It was a good shirt—or, that is, it looked good on him—Jon needed to quit staring silently and answer him, didn’t he?

“Martin!” He coughed. “No, not at all. You, uh, you look‚—very nice.”

He smiled and blushed almost as if he hadn’t been expecting that. “Well, thank you. So do you, obviously.”

Jon looked down at himself, with Daisy’s fur all over his clothes, and raised an eyebrow.

“I mean it,” Martin insisted. “I think you look good all the time, no matter what, so, so there.”

“Ah. Well.” His mouth worked silently for a second, and he decided it might be a good idea to change the subject now before they both combusted. “You’re biased,” he ended up saying. He was pretty sure there was a large chunk of his brain that hadn’t been consulted about it. “You’re dating me now. If I looked  _ bad, _ it would reflect on your taste in romantic partners.”

“That settles that, then—unless you want to  _ insult _ my taste, you’d better stop arguing with me about it, hadn’t you?”

“You’ve got me there,” said Jon wryly, and then remembered that they were supposed to be leaving the cafe right now rather than standing in the middle of it and sort-of flirting. He straightened up and offered Martin his hand. “Shall we go?”

Martin laughed and laced their fingers together. “I think we shall. Especially because as long as we’re  _ here, _ we’re going to have  _ them _ over there thinking we haven’t seen them.”

Jon looked where he was indicating. Michael and Sasha were sitting at a table together, very blatantly watching them. Sasha was even using opera glasses. She quickly opened a newspaper in front of her face to hide when she saw Jon looking her way; it might have worked slightly better had she not been holding it upside-down. Michael just made eye contact, grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

Jon looked back at Martin and sighed, while Martin shrugged in a “what can you do?” sort of way. “Right. Yes. Let’s go.”

Turning away, they decided at the same time that the interest of their nosy coworkers was not worth being self-conscious over. With their hands clasped and Jon tucked comfortably into Martin’s side, they walked out of the cafe together and into the sun.


End file.
